Nerd
by Night Monkey
Summary: The Joker sets out to prove that the Scarecrow is nothing more than a nerd. Can Dr. Crane show that mad scientist and geek are not synonymous? Will he have any dignity left by the end of the Joker's experiment?
1. Okra

Title: Nerd

Summary: The Joker sets out to prove, beyond any doubt, that the Scarecrow is a nerd. The Scarecrow wants to show everyone, perhaps himself most of all, that mad scientist is not synonymous with geek. Can he overcome the Clown Prince with any dignity intact?

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If there was anything worse than houseguests that wouldn't leave, it was uninvited houseguests who wouldn't leave. If there was anything worse than uninvited houseguests who wouldn't leave, it was uninvited houseguests with big, slobbery, mangy pets who wouldn't leave. If there was anything worse than that, Jonathan Crane hoped he died before he ever saw it.

In all fairness, Harley wasn't bad. She washed her own laundry, made excellent ice cream sundaes, and didn't hog the bathroom. Crane would have happily shared his home with her, and maybe, since she was just so damn cute, with her Babies.

99.9 percent, decimal repeating, of all Crane's problems stemmed from Harley's grinning Clown Prince. The Joker had no respect for personal property, space, or income. He ate what little food the Scarecrow bothered to amass, then complained he was hungry. He watched television when Crane tried to sleep, then shot the idiot box when nothing good was on. He played with fear toxin, having no aversion to it himself, and then had a problem when a mouse he exposed to it ran up the leg of his trousers and tried to nest there. He laughed straight through _Schindler's List_ (back when the Scarecrow still had a TV), couldn't wash any of the mountain of dirty dishes he created daily, and 'accidently' lit the curtains on fire.

It was no wonder the clown's last lair, a condemned comedy club, had burned to the ground. The Joker was a walking fire hazard, if not an outright arsonist. He tossed poisons together without so much as a pair of safety goggles to save his retinas should an explosion be the result. Was it honestly any wonder Harley and her diseased Puddin' were homeless every other week?

The Scarecrow brooded about his situation down in his lab. Most people suffered when the housing market collapsed; Jonathan Crane thrived. With foreclosed and empty homes dotting the city, he had his choice of digs. His current hideout had a spacious basement, perfect for setting up scientific equipment. Sure, knowing or threatening the right people to keep the utilities running was sometimes a pain in the ass, but living rent-free had its charms.

The basement was his dark, private hideaway. Anything on the first floor was neutral territory. Harley, the Joker, even Bud and Lou the hyenas, were free to roam around the living room, bathroom, kitchen, and parlor. The second floor had only one restriction: Crane's bedroom. That sanctity had all ready been violated. Three times the Scarecrow had thrown a fit over finding purple suits in his closet. So far, he's only had to chase the Joker out of the cellar once. Thanks to the terrified lab mouse, Crane dared to hope the clown would stay out for good.

Down in the lab, the stress of the day could finally be forgotten. It was terribly hard to stay angry, even at the Joker, when beakers bubbled and elements fused into mind-altering toxins without so much as a hiccup in the machinery. Who needed a hot tub or prescription pills when you could play Frankenstein in your basement?

Right now, Crane was working on something new and diabolical. There were millions of pets in Gotham. Most of them drank tap water. Every day, dogs and cats, hamsters and parakeets, had their dishes filled with unfiltered water. The Scarecrow's master plan was to concoct a water-soluble version of his fear toxin that did not affect humans, but only creatures in the lower zoo. It was more difficult than he first thought; some versions of the drug only affected mammals, others killed cats, passed over gerbils, and turned birds into creatures from a Hitchcock film. Lately, thanks to the antics, and whip, of Catwoman, he had been unwilling to pursue any more feline subjects.

Even with cats currently out of the equation, at least until Catwoman cooled down, the problem was immense. The Scarecrow wanted mass panic when normally gentle pets turned into terrified, uncontrollable animals. He wanted to see police dogs turn tail and run from criminals, hedgehogs to bristle at any and everything, exotic birds to shriek from morning to night. He also needed the humans sane enough to see it happen.

"Maybe some variation on Phencyclidine-" Crane muttered. He opened a notebook, dismayed to see he had totally filled it over the past two days. With his miniscule, cramped hand-writing, that amounted to enough words to write a trilogy.

"Time for a new notebook, Johnny?"

The Scarecrow leapt from his chair, grabbed one of the beakers, heedless of what was in it, and turned to hurl it at the trespasser. His arm was drawn back in the windup motion of a major league pitcher before he realized who was standing in his sacred space. It was unlikely whatever the glass beaker held would hurt the Joker, unless it set his clothes on fire. Then he would probably just get naked in a hurry, and Crane would rather drink whatever was in the beaker than see that.

"This is my part of the house. Didn't you see the damn signs on the door? No trespassing. Private property. Stay the bloody hell out. This means you, clown. I practically stapled them to the entire door! How did you miss them?" Crane demanded.

"You didn't have any newspaper." The Joker replied.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Scarecrow asked.

"The hyenas have to go somewhere. You didn't have any newspaper, so I had to improvise. There was all that paper just hanging from the door, so I figured I could use it." The Clown Prince replied.

"Get out of my laboratory! I swear to God, I'm going to install a deadbolt on that door!" Crane yelled.

The Joker grinned. "You're an atheist, Johnny."

The beaker, and its mysterious contents, came flying straight for the Joker's smirking white mug. He ducked easily. The glass shattered against the wall and a thick pall of green smoke poured out. The smoke was nearly the exact shade as the clown's vest.

"Oops. Clean up on aisle nine." The Joker said.

"What did I do to deserve this? What crime could I possibly have committed to warrant being forced to share my home with _that_?" Crane moaned.

"Gassing those kitties wasn't very nice." The Joker said.

"So I was told." Crane said.

"Catwoman found you, huh? I would have paid good money to see that." The Joker said.

"I've still got the marks. For a woman, she's got no sense of restraint whatsoever. There's absolutely nothing appealing about a _belle dame sans merci_." The Scarecrow said.

The Joker laughed loudly enough to rattle Crane's chemistry set. "A _what_?"

"A beautiful woman without pity, you gutter-dwelling clown. Have you ever picked up a single book in your life?" Crane snapped.

"I'm more of a graphic novels kind of guy." The Joker said.

"You're not earning any points with me. Save what little standing you have, and leave me alone. Go feed your pets, or feel up Harley, or stick your head in the toilet. I don't care, as long as you get out of my face." The Scarecrow said.

The Clown Prince frowned. "I like toying with you, Johnny. You're funny when you're angry. This crazy thing happens to your eyebrows. Yeah, there you go. Right there, you see?"

He was not letting the Joker touch him. Crane ducked under the clown's arm and was up the basement stairs before the Joker knew what happened. He slammed the door, wishing more than ever he had installed a lock.

Harley was kneeling on the kitchen counter and digging through bare cupboards. When the Scarecrow strode into the room, Harley greeted him cheerfully. She failed to take note of the severe frown he was wearing.

"Hi, Professor Crane. I was just checkin' ta see if you had any more Ramen noodles. Bud really likes 'em, and I do, too." Harley said.

"No, child. I have _no_ food whatsoever. That creature you incessantly cling to ate it all. He's a black hole, consuming all in his path." Crane snapped.

"Bud doesn't eat that much." Harley said.

"Not Bud, the Joker! I have no more money for food. If you want to eat, make that clown go out and steal something. By something, I don't mean candy and snack cakes." The Scarecrow replied.

"Ok. Where is Mister J, anyway? I can't find him anywhere. He isn't even messin' around in your room. Oh, I wasn't s'posed to say that." She said.

This really was too much. He couldn't have one moment of peace, even in his own hideout, all the food was gone, the television was murdered, and he was going to find all his underwear had mysteriously turned purple.

"I'm going to kill that clown. My toxins won't do it, fine. If a high-school student can build a bomb, so can I. No, maybe that would be a waste of nitrate. I'm sure one of my chemistry books, applied properly to the head, would result in severe brain damage." The Scarecrow said.

It wasn't that Professor Crane wasn't interesting; he was plenty fun to watch, and not all his lectures were boring and reminded Harley of high-school. The problem was, once he got off on a tangent, it was pretty hard to make him stop without setting his pants on fire or kicking him in the shins. Since she really didn't like to abuse friends, unless she knew her Puddin' would get a laugh out of it, she zoned out the furious Scarecrow and continued to raid his pantry for any forgotten cans.

"Professor, Pro-fess-or, Earth to Captain Crane, come in, Captain Crane. Hey, hey, HEY!" Harley finally yelled.

The Scarecrow swiveled around. "What? What's going on? Why are you shouting?"

"What's okra? I found a can of it, way in the back on the top shelf. Can I eat it?" The clown asked.

"Yes, it's perfectly edible." Crane replied.

"Ok. Uh, how do I eat it? Do I have ta cook it first?" Harley said.

This is what a culture raised off of fast food and frozen dinners got. People had no idea what real food even tasted like. It wasn't like okra was some bizarre tuber from the wilds of Borneo; it was eaten in one form or another all over the world!

"Cooking it would be preferable, yes. If I had any more food, which I don't, we could have a decent meal with that okra. If you like Cajun food, we could make a lovely gumbo. Or, since your _boyfriend_ would eat dog food if I placed it in front of him, breading and frying it would be less time-consuming and have the same results. You know, okra is actually a major source of-"

Blah, blah, blah, yak, yak, Nigeria. That was what Crane sounded like to the Joker. The Clown Prince had just emerged from the basement. He had discovered something interesting down there, and wanted to show it off.

"Hey, Scarecrow, have you got a dictionary?"

In the middle of his sermon about Vietnamese uses for okra, Crane snapped his mouth shut. He turned to face the Joker very slowly.

"Why do you need a dictionary? Are you going to burn it?" The Scarecrow asked.

"No, I need to look up about half of what you just said. For a supposed super villain, you're a nerd." The Joker said.

Nerd. Four letters that brought back all the misery of high-school. All the times he'd been jammed in lockers, beaten up, robbed, stomped on, mocked, belittled, humiliated, tormented, teased, spat on, picked last in gym class, and stood up at any dance or school function.

"I am not a nerd."

"Okra is actually one of the most drought-resistant plants, making it suitable for cultivating in Sub-Saharan African nations like Nigeria and nerd, nerd, and nerd. You, Professor Crane, could put Ben Stein to sleep." The Joker countered.

"I am not a nerd."

"Don't you ever listen to your own speeches? They might have kicked you out of the university, but you still talk like you're in front of a captive audience." The Joker said.

"I am not a nerd. And why in the hell are you wearing that? It's mine." Scarecrow said.

The Joker was wearing a lab coat, and had found Crane's safety goggles. The only time the thick glasses didn't look pathetically geeky was when some deadly chemical was boiling madly inches in front of them. Then they looked mad-scientist chic. In the dull, middle-class kitchen, the lab coat and glasses took any social status and feed it to the garbage disposal.

"Only a nerd would wear this." The Joker said.

"No. Anyone dealing in poisonous chemicals would wear it to preserve his sight, should something go awry. I have a sense of self preservation. I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking like Two-Face because I neglected safety." Crane said.

"You're lecturing to a chemistry student you just caught pouring the experiment on his partner. It's impossible for you to turn off the nerd, isn't it?" The clown asked.

This was a nightmare. Had he accidentally gassed himself and was hallucinating all this? No, probably not. The hyena lying on the floor with its legs in the air would probably look much scarier in the dark world the fear toxin took its victims to. As was, it just resembled a misshapen dog in need of a good tummy-rub.

"Yes, all right. That's who I am. I'm too brilliant for my station, so I don a burlap mask and a terribly itchy, stifling costume, and run around the town scaring people." The Scarecrow said.

"That only proves you're a nerd! How long did it take you to make your precious poison?" The Joker asked.

Why was the painted psychopath so interested? Never mind, never mind. How long had he actually tinkered? The first primitive batch had been in his senior year of school. A trilobite compared to what came later, but sufficient in its purpose. He'd been planning, at least day-dreaming, about poisoning his tormentors since at least Freshman Year.

"Four years, give or take."

"I mean, from the day you thought it up, to the day you stuck your head in a potato sack and went nuts on Gotham." The Joker said.

"It isn't just a potato sack! Why does everyone feel the need to belittle my mask? Honestly, all Nigma ever wears is this little purple thing, and you haven't mocked him for it. It's a perfectly decent mask for a scarecrow."

"If that helps you get through the day. How long's it been since you decided to become a terrorist, and how many drawn-out hours did it take you to sew that hideous thing?" The Joker asked.

Harley, still perched on the counter with the can of okra sitting beside her, found this exchange all very fascinating. Of course, if her Puddin' had been having a one-way conversation with a jar of tomato sauce, she also would have been equally enamored.

"I am _not_ a terrorist. You've been watching the Republicans too long." The Scarecrow said.

"I haven't been watching _anything_ too long. The TV is broken and you don't have a replacement." The deranged clown said.

"You shot it."

"Oh, right. I forgot about that."

Mister J and his selective memory! Most women would have gotten furious with a man who couldn't remember anniversaries, yet alone to pick up something to eat so they wouldn't have to mess with mystery veggies, but Harley found it appealing. No use dwelling on the past, after all. It's dead and gone, bye-bye, _adios_, get lost. Besides, her J was just so funny. That made up for any tiny, insignificant faults he might have.

The Joker and Scarecrow had forgotten what a civil conversation sounded like, and were now shouting at whose fault it was that the TV had died a violent death. Somehow, the Joker managed to blame it on Crane for not having cable television, and only depressing DVDs. Scarecrow, holding up fingers to illustrate his points, counted off ten reasons why it was the Joker's fault. His gun, his bullets, his lack of self-control, his lunatic mind, his gerbil attention span.

"Do you invite the local D & D club over every Saturday night to watch movies with you? I can't think of anyone, besides a nerd, who would have a movie about elves and midgets."

"It won 11 Oscars!"

"And you're a nerd to know that."

"Best picture, director, original score, original song-"

"You're just proving my point, Johnny. Hey, that gives me an idea. I'll prove, scientifically and beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are a nerd!" The Joker said.

Harley popped in. "How are you gonna do that, Puddin'?"

"Every time Spooky does something nerdy, I'll document it. Then, an independent source, namely you, Harley-kins, will decide if the data backs up the hypothesis." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow snorted. "That's an unsound experiment on so many levels. Harley hardly counts as an unbiased outside observer, you have no set laws defining what a nerd even is, and you haven't even formulated an 'if-then' hypothesis. You'd be laughed out of any serious scientific gathering, voiding all your results."

"Nerd! There's one, and the experiment started two seconds ago. This is going to be easy."

Jonathan Crane wanted to explode, but the words threatening to fly out were all over the Joker's head, anyway. This was the most pseudo-scientific experiment he's ever heard of. It was worse than hunting ghosts with an EMF detector.

"Fine. I'll prove to you both that I am not a nerd. If you catch me doing a dozen decidedly bookish things today, I'll rob a supermarket and get whatever you'd like to eat. You don't find 12 incidents, you both have to feed me." Scarecrow said. "What do you say to that?"

"I give it two hours." Harley said.

"45 minutes, tops." The Joker said.

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Author's Note: EMF stands for electromagnetic field. The EMF meter measures changes in electrical force. Some people, such as the Ghost Hunters, believe the EMF meter can detect the energy of spirits. If you've never watched _Ghost Hunters_, you should. It's pretty damn neat.

Phencyclidine is PCP. It has wildly different effects on animals than on people.

D & D is Dungeons and Dragons.


	2. Electricity

Many thanks to my reviewers. I adore you lot. I'll try to keep it as funny and witty as possible. I'm honestly flattered by the compliments.

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No more wrathful soliloquies. No more chemistry experiments. No more nagging, complaining, pestering, or kvetching. No more speaking French, no words with more than three syllables. No more tucking his pencil behind his ear. No more letting his hair get so wild he looked like Harry Potter. No more _Lord of the Rings_, at least until the Joker was converted. No more telling Harley hyenas were actually closer to cats than to dogs. In short, no more being Jonathan Crane.

"Whatcha thinking about, Johnny? Leveling up your elfin warrior so he can use his lightning attacks?" The Joker asked.

"No. I don't have any elfin warriors, let alone one capable of shooting lightning. If I did, I'd direct them to fry you, since I firmly believe you should have been given the chair years ago." Crane replied.

"You'd better watch out. It's only been five minutes, and I'm close to counting that as nerdy." The clown said.

This was absolutely ridiculous. The Joker's experiment laughed in the face of scientific procedure. Of course, the psychopath laughed in the face of every established law, except for the laws of physics, so Crane wasn't surprised. It was probably only a matter of time and mental decay before the Joker tried to retort Newton, Einstein, and Hawking.

"Do as you see fit. I'm going to nap, as soon as you get off my couch. Go sit on the floor or lock yourself in the pantry. You're going to be filling it very soon, by the way." Crane said.

His tactic was perfect. He couldn't do anything to draw the Joker's interest if he was sleeping. Seeing as how he was used to having an unpredictable sleep cycle, he could conk out in five minutes nearly anywhere. Once you learned to sleep in the back alleys of Gotham, you could sleep any place north of Hell.

"That's a cheap way out." The Joker grumbled.

"Too damn bad. I'm tired, anyway. Wake me up at 11:59 so I can laugh in your face." Crane said. A 10 hour nap was really pushing it, but maybe he was underestimating how tired he actually was. That scuffle with the Bat a few nights ago had probably taken a lot out of him.

"What if I just want to sit here and poke at you all day?" The clown inquired. He jabbed a finger in the Scarecrow's direction.

The Scarecrow did something that wasn't nerdy, but which did carry the risk he'd be beaten to death with a nearby lamp. He kicked the Joker off the sofa. Literally, with his foot. The surprised clown sprawled out on the carpet, wondering just how in the heck he had gotten there.

"I told you, I'm taking a nap. Get lost." The Scarecrow said.

Where did Straw Head get the notion he was the boss? In case he failed to notice, he was in the presence of the Joker. Nobody was the boss of the Joker. Not even Bruce Springsteen. Anybody who tried to refute the clown's claim of superiority had better have his final will and testament signed and sealed, and his tombstone picked out.

"Finally, showing some backbone? Good for you, kid." The Joker said.

Crane's eyes went wide. He hadn't just acted rashly and guaranteed himself a violent, and bloody end? Maybe showing a little dominance wasn't a bad idea. He was sick of being the other villains' doormat. No matter how pathetically thin and angular he was, that didn't make him a hat-rack, no matter what Tetch thought. Next time someone tried to hang something on him, he was going to show them!

"Give me a hand up?" The Joker asked. He had extended his arm, as though offering a handshake. Crane searched his face for any devious smirk, couldn't find one, and took the offered hand. For an evil genius, he was sometimes a dope.

"Set phasers to stun." The Clown Prince said before collapsing to the ground in a giggling heap.

So that's what would have happened if four-year-old Jonathan Crane had stuck a fork in the electrical outlet. He would have been electrocuted, twitched like a broken beetle, and hastened his young mother to a grave she was soon destined for, anyway.

"Puddin', what's goin' on in here? What's wrong with the Professor? Uh, why's he shakin' like that?" Harley asked. She scurried from the kitchen and into the living room.

"Johnny doesn't like shaking hands, Harley." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow, still twitching, struggled to get up. His right hand, extended in friendship hardly 20 seconds ago, was utterly numb. He had no feeling all the way up to his shoulder. The nerves had been overloaded. It would likely be a few minutes before they started firing properly again.

The Joker waited patiently as Crane fought his way up. Once the Scarecrow was relatively stable on his hands and knees, the crazy clown clamped his hand on Crane's shoulder. The Joker's killer gag gift, his joy buzzer, knocked the Scarecrow right back down.

The second burst of electricity nearly knocked Crane unconscious. He was dimly aware of the rough carpet beneath his face, and the odd dance his feet were doing. Distantly, he heard the Joker's mad laughter, Harley's quiet concern, and the shuffling approach of the brown, blurry shape of a hyena coming to investigate. If the animal saw him as wounded prey, he was going to be mauled to death on his own hideous, beige carpet.

"Maybe that's enough, Mister J. Whatever Professor Crane did, I'm sure he didn't mean it. 'Sides, if he's got a weak ticker, that's gonna kill him. I don't like sharin' houses with corpses. It creeps me out." Harley said.

Beautiful. He takes in a stranded woman, her mad lover, and her pets and doesn't charge her a red cent of rent. When the psychotic clown she loves abuses him, how does she respond? She doesn't throw herself over his body like some movie heroine. She stands there, biting her lip and can only talk about how unpleasant his dead body would be.

"Don't you worry your pretty blonde head, Harley dear, I'm not cutting my experiment short. I'm just teaching Spooky how to share the couch." The Joker said.

Bud trotted over and stuck his snout in the Scarecrow's ear. There are few things that feel nastier than a big, wet, snorting nose going into places it doesn't belong.

Crane swatted the hyena. Bud acted as though nothing had happened. He removed his muzzle from the Scarecrow's ear and began to lick his face, instead. The hyena had breath bad enough to blight crops and sicken farm animals. Raw meat, Ramen noodles, and not brushing were a deadly combination.

"Get it off me! It stinks, get it off me!" Crane shouted.

"Sure thing, Professor. Come to Mommy, Bud." Harley called. The hyena forgot about slobbering over every inch of the Scarecrow and scrambled over to clown.

Before Lou could wander in and commence the licking, Crane forced himself to stand. The double dose of electricity left him feeling weak and shaky, like a newborn calf. However, it also left him positively furious. If he knew a physical assault wouldn't just result in the Joker breaking every bone in his body, he'd punch the clown.

"You insidious, cowardly, bastardly lunatic! What's wrong with you?" The Scarecrow demanded.

"According to my doctors, pretty much everything." The Joker replied, chuckling.

"Obviously! Do you know what damage you could have caused me? Never mind the fact that I could have died. As though you wouldn't just move out and leave me to putrefy. I could have suffered permanent nerve damage. This hand could have constricted into a claw and stayed like that _forever_! Then I'd have to learn to write with my left hand. I am _not_ ambidextrous, you know! My research could suffer for years. You try dragging a kicking, screaming test subject with one hand when you weigh as much as I do!" The Scarecrow shouted.

The Joker counted with his fingers. "Let's see. Knowing exactly what effects he'd suffer. One strike. Knowing the word 'ambidextrous'. Two strikes. Admitting to being a scrawny weakling. Three strikes. Throw in the strike from before, and we're nearly half way to proving you're a nerd."

"You're a third of the way, actually." Crane said before he could smack himself.

"Math whiz. Five strikes."

The Scarecrow was seconds from tearing his hair out in great clumps. If he didn't get the Joker's grin out of his sights in the next minute, he was going to take a butcher knife to the clown, Harley's mislead heart be damned.

With as much dignity as he could muster, the Scarecrow turned from the Joker and made for the stairs. He intended to go up to his room, lock the door, and perhaps push a large piece of furniture against it for insurance. Unfortunately, Crane had underestimated the buzzer's lingering effects. Half way up the stairs, his legs buckled and he ended up rolling all the way down.

Harley and the Joker clutched each other and brayed laughter. When Crane had fallen gracelessly down the stairs, he had looked like a giant dead spider, a tangled mess of long limbs. The _thud_ he made upon landing was the perfect sound effect to complete the whole show.

Too bad that hadn't killed him. Dying of a broken neck would have saved him the great shame of untangling himself from himself, and crawling up the steps. As was, having come through the tumble relatively unharmed, the Master of Fear was forced to become the Master of the Pratfall. Muttering about how he'd like to drown the Joker in a very deep well, the Scarecrow hobbled off to his lair to brood.

Even with the door shut, the Scarecrow could still hear the Joker's laughter. When that clown thought something was funny, he let folks in Red China know about it.

"In a perfect world, he'd develop throat cancer and lose his larynx and tongue." Crane muttered. He knew it was incredibly rude to wish the c-word on anyone, but if there was a single human being not in control of a dictatorship who deserved to be eaten by his own mutated cells, it was the Joker.

Judging by the noises downstairs, Harley was doing impressions of what the lanky Scarecrow had looked like rolling down the steps. Crane wanted to hide his head. No doubt falling on his ass had earned him another strike in the Joker's useless experiment.

The one bright spot was that Crane was finally alone. His 'guests' were downstairs, entertaining themselves at his misery. Even if he had just been electrocuted, twice, and humiliated, there was now a high chance he'd come out the winner in the Joker's game. Yes, game was a much better word than experiment. To call it an experiment any longer would be to spit in the face of all things scientific.

In some of his hideouts, the Scarecrow had been reduced to sleeping on the floor. In a story he would repeat only under extreme torture, he had once lived inside a refrigerator box for a week and shared the cramped quarters with a ratty mutt he used as both a pillow and an alarm. The things he'd do to avoid the Bat apparently had no end.

Compared to that, the lowest of low, this house was paradise. Whoever had owned the house before the mortgage meltdown, sheer bad luck, or simple human greed had taken it from them had left behind some furniture. The couch downstairs, the kitchen table, and Crane's bed were all abandoned. The television he had stolen, and had been chased for three blocks by the TV's former owner.

The rest of the forgotten furniture had been a bonus, but he would be eternally grateful for the bed. Crane, like the communist critters of Orwell's _Animal Farm_, knew one of the main things separating man from beast was a clean set of sheets and a mattress to put them on. Bed sheets good, box in the alley, bad.

Maybe he'd rob a bookstore tomorrow, if the opportunity presented itself. A nice, long session with his favorite authors would be just the thing to get the horrendous memory of the clown and his demented jokes out of his head. Crane hadn't really had the opportunity to read anything decent in some time. In fact, the only thing he read with any regularity was the daily newspaper, which he filched from mailboxes.

His musings on literature and petty theft were broken when something very large crashed below. The Joker had probably broken one of the scant pieces of furniture the Scarecrow possessed. Crane scowled. That bloody maniac had crossed the line from house guest to house wrecker. If the buzzer hadn't knocked so much fight out of him, the Scarecrow would have been down the stairs and shouting about destruction of property.

Since any more conflict would just result in him getting turned inside out and hung from the ceiling fan, the Scarecrow decided to take that nap he wanted. He made sure the bedroom door was locked before settling down. The last thing he wanted to see when he woke up was the Joker, either standing over his bed like some specter or defacing what little clothing he had.

Downstairs, Harley and the Joker finally calmed down. The Joker tripping over Lou and smacking his head off the kitchen table had really sobered them both up. It was only funny when other people sustained injuries as a result of their clumsiness.

"Puddin', are you gonna need stitches? I'm sure the professor has a needle and thread around somewhere. He sewed his own costume, you know." Harley said.

The Joker was holding a dish towel to his head. "No, I'm not. It's hardly even bleeding. Harley, get that hyena away from me! He's eying me like an antelope!"

Lou was sitting at the Joker's feet, staring at him. Being so scrutinized was uncomfortable in the best of times, but when the watcher had some of the strongest jaws in the animal kingdom, it quickly became a health hazard.

"Sure thing. Come on, Lou, baby. Let's go see if you like okra." Harley said. She led the hyena into the kitchen. The whimpering noises that soon followed suggested that Lou did not like okra in the least.

The hyena ran from the kitchen, skittered up the stairs with much more grace than the Scarecrow had managed, and disappeared into one of the rooms. Harley, the open can of okra in her left hand and a spoon in her right, watched him go. If Lou didn't like okra, she probably wouldn't either. Since it was a vegetable, the chances Mister J would like it were slim to none, and slim was packing up to leave town. The harlequin sighed. The only food in the house was something nobody wanted to eat. It sounded like a really bad episode of the _Twilight Zone_.

"Is that the last of the food?" The Joker asked, eying the okra like it was some lethal alien virus. He had never eaten okra, and never would. In fact, he'd rather grill up Harley's jingling jester cap before he'd eat the horror in that can.

"'Fraid so, Mister J. I guess we could try to find edible plants out in the yard, but asides from that, there's no more food." Harley said.

The Joker stood up and snapped his fingers. His head injury was forgotten in his excitement. There was, of course, an easy way to get food. As a bonus, it would also annoy old long, tall, and frightful.

"Johnny!" The clown exclaimed.

"_What_? Puddin', there's no way I'm gonna _eat_ Professor Crane!" Harley cried.

"No, you silly nit! Our deal. All we have to do is get Spooky to act nerdy seven more times. It can't be all that hard. You know, and I know, and I'm sure he knows, deep down he's a loser. As soon as he flunks out, we send him on a grocery run." The Joker explained.

"Great idea! That's why I love you so much; you're so clever." Harley beamed.

"Huh. I thought it was because I said I'd beat you to death with a crowbar if you ever left me for good." The Joker said. The cheery grin fell straight off Harley's face.

"Well, there's tons of reasons I love you, Puddin'. But, I was just wonderin', how are we gonna get to the professor? I know he locks his door." Harley said.

"They haven't invented a lock I can't pick, shoot, or blow up. I'll have that door open in a minute." The Joker said. "In the mean time, I need you to do something for me."

Harley looked at her man with pure adoration. "Sure. Anything you need, I'll do it!"

"I need a black marker, shoelaces, shaving cream, duct tape, and a bucket full of cold water." The Joker said.

Harley memorized the eclectic list. She scurried off to hunt through the kitchen drawers, while the Joker crept up to the Scarecrow's room. He wasn't exactly a ninja, but he wasn't a tool chest falling down the stairs, either. Unless Crane was paranoid and listening for the squeak of the steps, the clown hadn't been detected.

Jonathan Crane wasn't listening; he wasn't even awake. Two minutes after lying down, he had conked out. It was never safe to fall asleep around the Joker. It was even more dangerous to do it when the clown was both hungry and in the mood for serious mischief. If the Scarecrow didn't know that by now, he would in about five minutes, or however long it took Harley to track down the list.

Oh, he was going to be so furious when he woke up.

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Author's Notes: Bruce Springsteen is nicknamed The Boss, on the off chance every person in creation didn't know that all ready.

If you've never read _Animal Farm_, it's about a group of barnyard animals in Britain overthrowing their human master. The pigs take over, and soon become just as bad as the farmer. It's an allegory for the Russian Revolution. The animals agree that no animal will ever sleep in a human's bed. Also, the line "bed sheets, good, box in the alley, bad" is a little joke. The animals had a mantra "four legs good, two legs bad".


	3. Wrestle Mania

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Plenty of things looked cute when they were asleep: babies, puppies, bunnies, old people, cats and ferrets, just for starters. Sadly, Jonathan Crane was not anywhere on that list; he wasn't even allowed within 100 yards of it, under a court order.

Harley, her hands occupied by a bucket and the various other items the Joker needed for his nefarious crime, couldn't help but feel bad for the fallen professor. She felt even worse for any woman he might have shared a bed with. There was no way it could have been comfortable, not with Johnny's stick-figure arms and legs poking out in all directions. If the Scarecrow had ever talked, connived, or paid a lady to sleep with him, the stand couldn't have lasted all night.

The Joker, probably thinking far more devious thoughts, took the aerosol can of shaving cream from Harley. It was her shaving cream, and raspberry-scented. If her Puddin' used it all torturing Professor Crane, she was going to rub her frizzy legs _all over him_ until he begged her to stop or threatened to put her in a box and mail that box to Sudan.

The Scarecrow slept like a starfish or Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, with his legs and arms outstretched. His right hand dangled off the side of the bed, making it the perfect target for the Joker. Suppressing his laughter as much as possible, the Clown Prince pressed the nozzle of the can against the unsuspecting hand. A second later, Crane was left holding a mound of white foam. The _whoosh_ of the shaving cream being dispensed didn't wake him, nor did the feel of the raspberry bubbles.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, the Joker handed Harley back the can. He then took the magic marker. The Joker uncapped the Sharpie and gave his blank canvas a once-over. The possibilities were nearly limitless for a skilled artist, as long as his canvas didn't wake up in the middle of the project and start yowling.

As a test, to see just how deeply asleep Johnny really was, the Joker drew two quick raccoon-mask circles around his eyes. The Scarecrow's foam-filled hand twitched, but didn't get slappy. Satisfied, the Joker got down to serious sketching.

Something smelled bad. Chemical, astringent, and poisonous. Oh hell. He had actually fallen asleep in his lab and he was now going to asphyxiate on his own chemical cocktail. He supposed it was fitting, maybe even poetic justice. All those people he'd terrified over the years with his fear toxin, and now it was going to do him in.

Wait a moment. That smell, he knew it. Of course he did, most people did. It wasn't the smell of a lab experiment gone south; it was just the odor of permanent markers. The question was, why on Earth did he smell markers? Crane was far from desperate enough to sniff Sharpies in an attempt to get high. So why was that smell bothering him while he was trying to get his damned beauty rest.

The smell was beginning to tickle his nose. He raised a hand to scratch his nose, only to splatter his face with shaving cream. That woke him straight up.

To add to Crane's chagrin, the Joker burst out laughing. That meant the purple-suited, utterly brain dead maniac was in his room! That meant his lock had failed and all his privacy was now null and void. If Crane could have gotten a hold of whoever manufactured the lock, the entire company, down to the office plants, would be wishing it had never been incorporated.

With obvious disgust, the Scarecrow wiped the foam off his nose. Raspberry shaving cream, eh? If that was the best the ridiculous freak could come up with, he was losing his touch. Crane needed both hands to count the times his college room-mates, who had a habit of not lasting through the semester, played that trick on him.

"Juvenile, clichéd, and worse than a skit on _Jackass_." The Scarecrow said with contempt. He flicked some of the airy foam at the Joker. Having next to no mass, the shaving cream landed on the carpet.

"What? It's classic, not clichéd! You obviously have no appreciation for true art." The Joker said.

"It pisses on Michelangelo, aborts Leonardo, and vomits on the shoes of Gauguin. Making someone slap himself with shaving cream is as far from art as it is humanly possible to be." Crane said.

"Take it back." The Joker demanded.

"No. You utterly deserve it. You have absolutely no taste whatsoever. Furthermore, you have no grasp or what science, art, or personal space is. If presented with the _Mona Lisa_, I'm sure you'd take a marker and give her a moustache and mismatched eyes." The Scarecrow said.

Unbeknownst to him, Crane had accurately described what the Joker had drawn on him. The Clown Prince found this, like most things, unbearably funny. He laughed so hard Harley was forced to drop the bucket so she could support him.

Jonathan Crane was, by nearly any standard, a mentally gifted man. He quickly put freaky eyes, the unpleasant smell of a marker, and the Joker's uncontrollable fit together. He wiped at his face and was far from amused when his fingers bore black smudges.

Anger felt absolutely wonderful. Yes, being logical and analytical was certainly the best way to live, but sometimes letting primitive emotions lead you felt so much better. This was just the case for Crane right now. His logical brain was reminding him very loudly how bad it hurt to be shocked. His emotional side, which he envisioned as being shrunken and rather raison-like, demanded he knock the Joker's teeth out.

The Scarecrow stood up on his bed. His unusual height was expounded by his position on the bed. The Joker tilted his head in confusion, then burst out laughing again. Someone as tall as Crane, especially someone clinically insane and generally regarded as evil, should have been able to intimidate with his height. Unfortunately, being so sadly skinny reduced the Scarecrow to more of a joke.

Harley, unlike the Joker, realized why Crane was standing at the edge of his bed. She had seen enough Wrestle Mania in her life to know. The professor was about to take a daring leap off the ropes and tomb-stone her Puddin'. Normally, whenever some thug or freak dressed as a bat tried to get the jump on Mister J, she'd just take her mallet to them. However, this seemed a little too much fun to interfere with. Harley backed up a few steps, so she wouldn't be struck by any flailing limbs.

Like the Jersey Devil, minus the horse-like head and cloven hooves, Crane swooped down at the Joker. He was oddly graceful for the second he was airborne, looking a bit like the long-legged bird that shared his name.

Understandably, the Joker was shocked to see the Scarecrow flying at him. It was odd enough for the professor to willingly engage in a physical fight. It was even stranger for him to instigate the conflict. From what the Joker understood, the Scarecrow was much better at sprinting from the scene of the crime like an elongated bunny, as opposed to standing his ground. Flight, not fight, was his dominant instinct.

Though the Scarecrow was thin enough to be labeled malnourished, he had more than enough weight to knock the Joker on his ass. Crane punched the clown, shouting out a new transgression against him or his house with each blow.

"That's for clogging up the toilet and ruining the rug"

"That's for eating all my damn food!"

"That's for harassing my lab animals and traumatizing my mice!"

The Joker wasn't concerned by the Scarecrow's shouting or his beating. Crane could probably whale on him for half an hour, and not do a quarter of the damage Batman could inflict with one well-placed punch. It was so painfully obvious that Johnny, without his toxin and his goofy mask, was the same scrawny nerd he'd been all his life.

"Couldn't beat up a crippled poodle. There's strike six, Spooky."The Joker said between ineffective punches.

"Bugger." Crane muttered. It wasn't the fact he was half-way to being scientifically classified as a geek that bothered him. He could live with that. It was how unfazed the Joker sounded. The bloody clown shrugged off a dozen punches with all the ease of a man shrugging off a rain coat.

The Joker pushed Crane off him with one arm. The Scarecrow, sure his sole option of survival was to jump out the window and into the shrubs below, was on his feet in a second. He crossed the room and began fighting with the window latch.

Instead of jumping on Crane's back, knocking him flat, and slamming his head against the floor until his face resembled a hyena's, the Clown Prince grabbed Harley's forgotten bucket. He took note that she had retreated out of the room entirely. Maybe she was worried he'd do something too violent for her precious Babies to watch and had gone to shelter their innocent eyes.

Damn it! The window was utterly and immovably stuck. Some dolt had painted all around the frame, sealing it shut. Crane would need a crowbar or a stick of dynamite to open it.

"Hey, Johnny!" The Joker shouted.

Crane whirled around just in time to get soaked. The water was so cold it could have come straight from a melting glacier on the coast of Greenland. He gasped in shock at the sudden freeze and forgot all about escaping like a bandit.

The psychotic clown came at the Scarecrow, laughing like a loon the whole time. Soaking wet, the Scarecrow appeared even scrawnier than usual. He looked like drowned Chihuahua.

Before Crane could overcome the shock of being doused in ice-water, the Joker was on him. The clown hit him on the head with the empty bucket. Luckily, the bucket was made of light plastic and about as effective of a bludgeon as a couch cushion would have been.

The bucket didn't do any damage, but what the Joker did next had the potential to be lethal. There was a reason, based on simple scientific principle, why it was unsafe to go swimming during a thunderstorm. Water was an excellent conductor of electricity. Crane was soaked to the skin, and the clown had his evil little toy.

The Scarecrow knew exactly what the Joker had planned. He'd been zapped twice all ready today, and had no desire to try it again. Especially not right now, while was dripping all over the carpet. The old saying went 'the third time's the charm', though in this case the charm would be his untimely demise.

"Joker, no!" Crane exclaimed. He held out his hands, intending to intercept the joy buzzer and break the demented clown's wrists if he could.

Instead of bothering to avoid the Scarecrow's defense, the Joker just latched onto his hands like a barnacle. Crane's hands and arms were just as wet as the rest of him, so it wouldn't be any problem.

There was one brief second for him to realize he was holding hands with the Joker before the giggling maniac fried him. Crane was quite sure he screamed, and probably sounded so feminine the Joker would tally it against him. Asides from that, he didn't know anything else for quite some while.

Harley had reappeared, Bud and Lou flanking her. They all stood in the doorway, peering in cautiously. Without warning, Harley burst into noisy tears.

"Mister J, you killed him! He was so nice to us, and you killed him! Poor Professor Crane. Who's gonna give us Halloween candy this year?" Harley sobbed.

The Joker dug a foot into Crane's ribs. The Scarecrow moaned, but showed no signs of recovering. He was out, and staying that way.

"Stop crying, Harley-pooh. Johnny's not dead. Look, he's breathing just fine." The Joker said.

"But you hurt him. I heard him from all the way down the hall." Harley said.

The clown chuckled. "It was pretty funny, like one of those taser videos from YouTube. If only I had a camera handy."

"That's mean, Puddin'. It isn't nice to film people's pain and then exploit it. Bad, Mister J! Bad!" Harley scolded.

"Yeah, yeah, the shrinks have been telling me that for years. Do me two favors. Shut up, and grab the duct tape." The Joker said.

Scowling, Harley grudgingly obeyed. She snatched up the duct tape, and stomped over to the Joker.

The crazy clown stripped the wrinkled sheets off Crane's bed. He laid them out flat on the floor and then dragged the water-logged Scarecrow on top of them. While Harley watched with childlike curiosity, the Joker began to wrap up the unconscious man.

"Harley, go get the shoelaces, too." The Joker said. She quickly did as she was told.

"They're from the Professor's shoes." Harley said. Her lunatic boyfriend snickered.

The Joker wrapped the shoelaces around the Scarecrow's stick-thin wrists. The duct tape would have worked just as well, but the laces would be much more uncomfortable. He made an insane number of knots in the laces. By the time the Joker was satisfied, the shoelaces resembled a bird's nest or a bowl of spaghetti.

With his hands sufficiently bound, the Joker finished wrapping Crane in the sheets. The Scarecrow resembled a caterpillar that was nearly done weaving its cocoon. To insure the Scarecrow couldn't wiggle free, the Joker began reinforcing the cotton with duct tape. He used half the roll. The only kind of bug that would ever emerge from a silver Sci-fi cocoon of that size was Mothra.

"What are you gonna do with him, Puddin? He can't get groceries if he's sleepin'." Harley pointed out.

"Oh, yeah. How about that? I suppose if we just threw his unconscious body out in front of the Quick Mart, he'd get arrested and we'd still go hungry. Carry him downstairs, Harley." The Joker said. Leaving his favorite girl with her mission, he strolled out of the room.

Her mouth agape, Harley regarded the tightly bound Scarecrow. He was nearly a foot taller than she was! How did Mister J expect her to lug Professor Crane down all those stairs? She supposed she could just drag him to the edge and give him a good shove, letting gravity do the real work. Then she figured he wouldn't be much use with his arms broken in six places and his leg on backwards.

"I love my Puddin', but sometimes he wants me to move the world." Harley muttered.

And sometimes he wanted her to move mad scientists who liked to keep poison canisters up their sleeves. That was one of those days. Harley squared her hips, grabbed hold of the bed sheets, and yanked.

Lou and Bud, clever children that they were, scampered over to help their significantly less furry mother. Lacking hands, the two hyenas had no choice but to use their teeth. Lou bit down on nothing but sheet, while Bud got a decent chunk of the Scarecrow's arm. If he had been aware enough to feel it, there would have been some frightful curses uttered.

"Spit it out, Bud! I told Mister J I ain't gonna eat Professor Crane, and neither are you. Let go, Lou and me have it." Harley said.

Bud dropped the mouthful of sheet and Scarecrow. Grinning a decidedly doggy grin, despite what Crane said about his evolutionary past, the hyena sat on his haunches and watched with great curiosity.

With Lou's assistance, Harley was able to pull Crane out of his bedroom. He knocked his head against the door frame on the way out, and Harley winced. He was going to be feeling _that_ when he woke up.

They made fine progress until hitting the top of the stairs. Harley peered down the landing, and then looked at the Scarecrow. There was no way she could get him down there. Maybe, if Lou was a human and not a spotted hyena, but if wishes were fishes, her Puddin' would just put smiles on them. Harley didn't give a damn that it didn't make an ounce of sense. Neither Joker Fish nor smiles were going to grab Crane's feet and give her a hand, either.

"Just imagine he's your kid, and you're rescuin' him from a fire. Yeah, use the Momma instinct." Harley said.

If grades were given out for her performance, Harley would have gotten an A for effort and an F for actual results. She did manage to get Jonathan's soaking, sorry carcass onto her shoulders in the classic fireman's carry. Then, too top heavy and unbalanced, the clown and her unfortunate package rolled all the way down the stairs. Lou became entangled and tumbled with them, yipping like a stepped-on Schnauzer.

The Scarecrow landed on the bottom of the pile. Harley fell on top of him, feeling some bony joint poke her in the ribs. Lou, all 130 pounds of him, landed on top of Harley. For kicks and giggles, Bud bounded down the stairs. Not wanting to be left out, he launched himself on top of the stack.

"Mommy…can't…breathe! Ah!" Harley gasped. She had twice her body weight piled on her. Poor Jonathan, squished beneath the three of them, was going to die like Giles Corey if they didn't get off him in a hurry. Heavy with all her might, Harley managed to dislodge the two hyenas. She rolled off Crane, who appeared slightly flattened.

The Joker, perched on the back of the chair like a giant purple canary, burst into his loudest laughter of the day. He clutched himself tightly, as though to keep from laughing to death like the cartoon weasels in _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_

"Yeah, Mister J! You keep on laughin' and I'll tear your tongue out and wrap it around your head." Harley threatened.

The clown's only response was, "Seven strikes for Johnny, one for Harley, and one for the mutts."

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Author's Note: Mothra was a giant moth who fought Godzilla in those hokey old films.

Giles Corey was pressed to death beneath a rock during the Salem Witch Trials. His purported last words were "More weight." Wise-ass.


	4. Quasi Immortal

Thanks ever so much for all the reviews!

Purple Ghost Sausage: Raisin. You have no idea how hard I want to kick my own ass right now. I can't believe I spelled that wrong. And as for fear toxin in boiled water, I have no idea. I might have to explore that some day.

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"So, what are we gonna do with him? We can't just leave him on the kitchen floor." Harley said.

"I don't see why not. Nobody's going into the kitchen any time soon because there's no food. It would be masochistic to keep looking at the empty fridge, anyway." The Joker replied.

Harley sighed and poked her empty stomach. It emitted a noise like wind blowing across the bare Gobi desert. "I wanna cheese sandwich." She whimpered.

"And I want Batman's head. We don't always get what we want." The Joker said.

"Are you sure you don't want _my_ head?" Harley asked, and there was no mistaking her licentious tone.

"Oh, you naughty little minx."

"I'm a hungry little minx, too."

"Don't ruin the moment."

"Sorry, Puddin'."

Jonathan Crane, wrapped up like a fresh mummy, was forgotten. If he knew what Harley and the Joker did on his kitchen table, behind his sofa, and, when they decided to try something risky, down in his lab, he would have walked out the door, locked it behind him, and burned the whole place to the ground. Then he would have leapt in front of a train.

After contaminating nearly every aspect of Crane's house, the Joker and Harley finally ran out of energy. They set about the task of finding their clothes. Harley had the foresight to drop most of her clothing in a pile on her bedroom floor. The Joker, mainly because he liked making a mess in the general order of the Scarecrow's home, had scattered his suit in various places. His tie was hanging from the ceiling fan in the kitchen, his pants were draped over the wire cage that held Crane's lab mice, and his shirt was serving as Lou's new chew toy.

"Harley, I can't find my socks. Or my shirt. Or my left shoe. Harley, find my clothes." The Joker said.

Unbeknownst to the Joker, Harley all ready found his shirt. To be more precise, she found the scraps of it Lou hadn't managed to eat. There wasn't enough fabric left to serve as the funeral shroud of a chinchilla.

"Bad Babies! You aren't supposed to eat Mister J's stuff. He's gonna be so mad. We gotta hide the evidence." Harley said. She wrestled the rag from Lou and did the one thing that made any sense. Like a junkie desperate to hide his stash from the cops, she flushed it down the toilet.

"Harley! Did you find my clothes yet? I feel drafty." The Joker said.

"Uh, I got your socks, Puddin'. I think that shoe ended up under the couch." Harley replied. She hastily snatched the purple balled-up socks from behind the door and headed down stairs.

She found the Joker in the living room. He was reaching under the sofa, trying to fish out his missing shoe. After a minute, he snagged it and reeled it in.

"Here's your socks, Puddin'. I can't find your shirt, though. Are you sure you didn't leave it down in the lab?" Harley asked.

"I have other shirts; that isn't the problem. I want my squirting flower. I don't have any replacements for it." The Joker said.

All the color drained from Harley's face and her knees went wobbly. Of all Mister J's toys and gadgets, his squirting flower, always pinned on so proudly, was one of his favorites. Over the years, that trick flower had held everything from corrosive acid to laughing gas. Harley had no idea what chemical filled it now. All she knew is that the flower's contents weren't edible. Had Lou eaten it, or had she flushed it down the john? It was a Hobson's choice; she was toast either way.

"LOU!" Harley wailed. She threw the Joker's socks and ran up the stairs. In her mind's eye, she could see her precious hyena stretched out in the hall, stone dead.

Two hyenas met her at the top of the stairs. Lou, his tongue lolling out, didn't look sick in the least. If there had been acid in the flower, it would have eaten through him by now. The laughing gas, if it even affected hyenas, would have done something by now, too.

If Lou didn't eat the flower that meant it had gone down to the big goldfish graveyard with the scraps of the Joker's shirt. Harley collapsed to the floor, covered her head, and moaned. Puddin' was going to kill her.

"What's gotten into you, Harley? Even for you, this is weird." The Joker said.

"I didn't mean to do it, Mister J! Honest, I didn't mean to." Harley whimpered.

The Joker's quasi-immortal grin faltered. "What did you do?"

"I, I, Lou ate your shirt and I flushed it down the john!" She cried.

The Joker screamed so loudly the windows rattled, the hyenas scrambled off to hide beneath Crane's bed, and a lab mouse, all ready a twitching bundle of whiskers and white fur, suffered a fatal heart attack. Harley cringed and drew herself up into a ball.

"You and your mangy mutts cost me my flower!" The Joker snarled. He stomped up the stairs.

Harley felt the Joker grab handfuls of her T-shit. He hauled her to her feet. Even once she was standing, he refused to let her go. Instead, the Joker shook the terrified woman.

"Well, Harley, what do you propose I do now? My flower is gone! I ought to-"The Joker said.

An ominous gurgling, like a geyser on the edge of eruption, came from the bathroom down the hall. The Joker unclenched his fists. He shoved Harley in the direction of the strange, bubbling noise.

"Go and see what that is." He ordered.

"But what if it's a gator, coming out of the sewer?" Harley asked.

"Gators don't eat clowns because they taste funny." The Joker replied.

Harley crept towards the bathroom. Just before she entered, she realized her feet were wet. The toilet was over-flowing. It hadn't been able to scarf down the Joker's shirt without choking up.

"Puddin', we need a plunger ASAP!" Harley called.

The Joker appeared at her side. "I have no idea where to find one."

"But you clogged up the toilet before. How did you un-clog it?" Harley asked.

"Spooky did it, remember? He was cursing at me the whole time, and I was rolling around on the floor and pointing at him. Toilets are always funny." The Joker said.

"They _are_ always funny, aren't they? I guess that's why there's a million potty jokes. But, Mister J, what are we gonna do? I'm not reaching into the toilet, no way, now how." Harley said.

The clowns retreated from the bathroom. Neither of them knew where the Scarecrow kept his bathroom supplies. It was probably a wise thing, hiding the extra toilet paper from the Joker. He'd only throw it all over the house, and then run outside to do the same to the trees and shrubbery.

While the Joker and Harley wondered what to do about the slowly spreading flood, the toilet water began to trickle through the floor boards. On the first floor, in the area directly below the bathroom, puddles were starting to form. Unfortunately, the cocooned Jonathan Crane was lying in the center of one of these growing puddles. He was just having one of those days.

The Scarecrow was just coming back to consciousness. He was vaguely aware of his surroundings, but lucid on one very unpleasant fact. He was in pain damn near everywhere. His head felt like it was on the verge of imploding like the _Kursk._ His arm bore what felt like a nearly circular wound. His chest ached, and it felt like a 500 pound gorilla had been sitting on his back and eating bananas there.

As the world grew less black, Crane noticed a few other things. He was soaking wet, but he hadn't been taking a shower or playing in the rain. He hadn't played in the rain in almost 30 years.

Similarly water-related, there was a steady drip _plinking_ directly onto his forehead. Was he undergoing Chinese water torture? Had he ever pissed off the Asian mob? Was water torture really as effective as the myths implied? Would it really drive him insane? Didn't the Mythbusters once do a show on water torture? What had Adam and that man with the walrus moustache discovered?

Before Crane could remember what bizarre experiment the Mythbusters had done in the name of science, he realized the water was now trickling faster. It was more like an April shower than the monotonous drop associated with water torture.

Crane opened his eyes. Immediately, droplets began splashing him. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. Before his eyeballs could flood, he took stock of his situation. He was lying on the floor of his kitchen. The table had been moved three feet from its usual position. And the ceiling was crying.

"Wait. My ceiling is _crying_? Huh?" Crane asked. Normally, his inquisitive mind would have been racing, eager to explore why there was water dripping from the roof. Addled as he was, the Scarecrow could only form the most basic question.

The most obvious thing to do was to get up and investigate. However, when Crane tried this, he found he was unable. He couldn't even move his hands. When he failed to move his hand, he grew irate. He automatically assumed his hand had developed free will and was acting belligerent out of spite for all the nasty jobs he had made it perform over the years.

"What's going on here? Hand, come to me. I am the Master of Fear, and of hands, as well." Crane muttered. He was still fuzzy from the shock and subsequent fall down the stairs. That fuzziness manifested in a state close to drunken stupor.

The Scarecrow yanked his hands, only to have the shoelaces bite into his wrists. He swore in Italian. He had gotten frustrated at his hands for nothing. They had not evolved into sentient beings; they were just tied up.

"Damn it." Crane said. He tried to sit up, only to find this impossible as well. For some reason he couldn't quite remember, but could feel lurking at the very edge of his brain, his entire body was tied up. That normally only happened at Arkham, when he shouted about how he was the Master of Fear and Lord of Despair during the very early hours of the morning. He was not at Arkham and, judging from the sunlight pouring through the windows, it wasn't three hours until dawn.

The Scarecrow tilted his head down as far as he could. He discerned that he wasn't in a straightjacket, the typical fare of Arkham Asylum. Instead, he was wrapped from head to foot in sheets and duct tape. What kind of a lunatic would do such a thing?

Yes, what kind of lunatic? The same kind of lunatic who found shocking people unconscious great fun. The damned Joker. The bastard had also upset his house so badly it started weeping!

No, that didn't make any kind of sense. Houses couldn't cry, no matter what despicable acts the people who inhabited them committed. What kind of asinine crap had he been thinking?

What the Scarecrow had to do was stop thinking about Discovery Channel programs and weepy houses, and start figuring out how to get out of the cocoon. He hardly had room to wriggle. There was no way he was going to be able to free his hands; pulling only tightened the knots until they dug into his wrists and cut off all circulation.

Crane growled in frustration. There was no foreseeable way to extricate himself from the sheets. That left only outside help.

"Joker! I'm going to tear your lungs out, fry them in a wok, and choke you with them! You're going to die, clown!" The Scarecrow yelled.

Upstairs, the Joker and Harley were still arguing over what the best course of action to take over the regurgitating toilet was. The Joker believed the easiest thing to do was to just blow the whole thing up. Harley wanted to look around for the plunger before the high explosives were pulled out. After all, the house would be a great deal less bearable if it was filled with toilet water.

"I guess Johnny's up. That solves our problem then, doesn't it? He can take care of the toilet, and we can laugh at him for it. Maybe he can even earn his eighth strike." The Joker said.

Without waiting for Harley to respond, the Joker dashed downstairs. Harley didn't bother to follow. She didn't want to hear what sort of words would come pouring out of Professor Crane's mouth when he discovered the Joker had wrecked havoc on the plumbing again. Instead, she went to drag Bud and Lou from the Scarecrow's room so he'd have one less thing to be angry about.

The Joker waltzed through the living room, through the little archway that separated it from the kitchen, and came upon the Scarecrow. The second Crane caught sight of the Joker, he broke into a tirade filled with more swears than a rap album.

"Easy, Johnny-boy. If you don't calm down, you'll give yourself a stroke." The Joker said.

"I will not calm down! I have no reason to calm down. I…Why in the hell aren't you wearing a shirt?" Crane asked.

"That's what I'm here to tell you. My shirt was flushed like a dead fishy. But, the toilet wasn't hungry." The Joker said.

"What in the hell are you talking about? Spit it out!" The Scarecrow demanded.

"The toilet blocked up again."

"NO!"

"Afraid so. I'm not joking, for once." The Joker said.

The stream of curses Crane shouted would have made a nun faint and a sailor whistle in admiration. Harley clamped her hands over Bud's ears. Lou, who was still wedged securely under the bed, would just have to understand that even the professor had a limit.

By the time the Scarecrow stopped shouting, he had turned a color normally reserved for fire trucks and stop signs. He was struggling gamely, even bound as he was, to get at the Joker. Crane couldn't reach any higher than the clown's ankles, but he was prepared to bite like a terrier if he got the chance.

Before the furious Scarecrow could wiggle across the kitchen, the Joker flanked him. The psychotic clown went to the same kitchen drawers Harley had searched for markers and duct tape. While he opened one, Crane tried to get himself turned around, so he could face the Joker. It was about as easy as making a U-turn with a semi-truck on a single-lane road.

"Get out of there. Stop defiling my stuff." The Scarecrow demanded.

The Joker began to toss things from the drawer. A wooden spoon clattered to the floor. An assortment of plastic measuring spoons struck the Scarecrow and bounced off. The pizza-cutter, which hadn't been used since the Joker fixed the delivery boy with a permanent grin, nearly hit Crane in the face.

"Damn it! I told you to get out of that drawer! Joker, so help me, when I get out of this ridiculous mess, you're going to wish you'd camped out in a Dumpster." The Scarecrow shouted.

Just as Crane began another empty threat, the Joker slammed the door shut. The Scarecrow opened his mouth to complain about how the maniac abused his furniture, but closed it when he caught sight of what the Joker had pulled from the drawer.

"What we're you saying, Spooky?" The Joker inquired.

"Nothing at all."

For the self-proclaimed Master of Fear, he was pretty damn easy to scare. All the Joker had to do was flash the knife he had found among the less-fatal kitchen items, and the Scarecrow turned to Jell-O. It was as pathetic as it was funny.

The Joker crouched down at Crane's level. He made no motion to suggest he was about to use the knife, but the Scarecrow acted as though he had nearly been stabbed.

"I'm sorry. Listen, I can lighten up. I swear no more whining, kvetching, complaining, nothing. Just put the damn knife down." Crane said.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Johnny." The Joker said.

"Then do it quickly."

"I was planning to." The Joker replied.

The Scarecrow closed his eyes and tensed his body. He heard fabric tear and waited for the pain he was sure was coming. More fabric ripped, but the knife never grazed him. After a few seconds, Crane opened his eyes.

"What's the matter with you? Stop cutting my damned sheets! I only have one set, and I am not sleeping on a bare mattress!"

"I thought there was going to be a little less complaining." The Joker reminded him.

"I hope you get hit by a bus." Crane muttered darkly.

Undoing the roughly three miles of duct tape would have taken far too long. The Joker didn't have the patience, and the increasingly large puddle of toilet water gathering on the floor was only hurrying him along. When the bed sheets were weighed against getting that toilet unclogged, the scale swung in one direction.

Even duct tape, the God of amateur home repair, was no match for the Joker's knife. In hardly a blink, Crane was free. Unlike most people who have just been liberated, he wanted to wrap his hands around his liberator's neck and squeeze until the Joker turned the color of a Smurf.

"Ok. Now go and fix the toilet." The Joker said.

Crane got to his feet and scowled. "I have no desire to do so. You fed your clothes to it, you can fix it. The plunger's under the sink. Good luck."

"You'll fix it, or I'll do to your guts what I did to your bed sheets." The Joker warned.

The Scarecrow winced. He wanted to be opened up like an autopsy subject even less than he wanted to play in the toilet. Wishing a thousand painful deaths on the Joker, Crane retrieved the plunger from the cabinet under the kitchen sink.

The carpet around the bathroom was soaked thoroughly. Crane ignored the _squish_ each footstep made. He also ignored the Joker's laughter.

Water was pouring out of the toilet. The bathroom was flooded enough to serve as a habitat for sea otters. It would take days to dry out completely.

"What a mess." Crane muttered. He crossed the bathroom floor and jammed the plunger into the loo.

After a lot of squelching and plunging, the toilet coughed up the remains of the Joker's shirt. The Scarecrow grabbed the soaking rag and threw it to the clown. Luckily, the squirting flower had remained in place. If not, there was a good chance the Joker would have forced Harley and the Scarecrow to go spelunking in the sewer for it.

"I'm through with toilets. I did not graduate college in record time so I could serve as your plumber. I don't care if you have to call Mario and Luigi. I am never doing that again." Crane said. He tossed the plunger to the floor and stormed out. He was going down to his lab, and he was going to brew some napalm.

"Your college education makes you too good for the rest of us, huh, Spooky? There's strike eight." The Joker called.

In a move of utter contempt, Crane gave the Joker the finger. He didn't care that it was the symbol of the uneducated malcontents. It just felt right.

"I don't think he's too happy, Puddin'." Harley said. In confirmation, the cellar door slammed.

"You think he's mad now, just wait until he sees where I left my underwear."

Mount Saint Helens erupted in the basement. The Joker threw back his head and laughed.

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Author's Notes: Quasi-immortal: A phrase at least as foolish as 'most unique'- Stephen King _The Dark Tower VII_

According to the Mythbusters experiment, Chinese water torture really makes you need to pee.

The _Kursk_ was a Russian submarine that went down to Davy Jones's locker, taking all crew with it.


	5. Hot Pants

Many, many thanks for all the reviews!

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Jonathan Crane could bear having all his food eaten; he never ate all that much, anyway. He could put up with the hyenas; they weren't exactly noble creatures, but they were house trained. If he grit his teeth until his gums bled, he could even, maybe, possibly, forget about the two toilet incidents. However, finding the Joker's polka-dotted unmentionables down in his lab was blasphemy of the highest degree and totally unforgivable. It was like burning an American flag, but multiplied a few million times.

The underwear, like everything the Joker wore, was purple and green. How the clown made such clashing, uncoordinated colors work together so seamlessly, Crane had no idea. Maybe an interior decorator or a gay man from one of those fashion magazines could shed some light on it. Of course, if a professional decorator or fashion critic strolled up to the Scarecrow to explain it at that moment, the hapless person would have been swiftly reduced to hamburger and goo.

The boxers were proudly displayed in the square center of Crane's desk. They were covering his recently filled notebook. That only rubbed salt in a wound that hurt bad enough on its own. Torturing the Scarecrow was one thing, but draping gaudy underpants over his precious hand-written data was a whole different matter.

Unable to contain his anger or express it with human words, Crane howled like the Beast of Bray Road. He no longer had the ability to endure the Joker's increasingly stupid and degenerate acts. It was time to act.

For starters, the Scarecrow was going to do something about those damned pants. He certainly wasn't going to _touch_ them; he'd rather stick his hand into a green, glowing vat of toxic waste. Grimacing with disgust, Crane grabbed a pair of tongs and removed the offending underwear.

Before Crane could decide between burning, liquidating, or melting the underwear in acid, the cellar door swung open. The Joker wasn't done filling the Scarecrow's life with misery and woe.

"Hi, Johnny. I was just wondering if you've seen my undies. Harley and I had such a good time down here I just noticed they weren't where they're supposed to be. That is, under my pants, like their name suggests." The Joker said.

Harley and I had such a good time down here. The Scarecrow knew they hadn't been playing an energetic game of leap frog. The two insane clowns had been all over each other, and his lab equipment. Crane felt his skin crawl. He was going to need gallons of bleach before he would touch any of his beakers or test tubes.

"You didn't. Please, tell me you two didn't have sex down in my lab." Crane begged.

"I could tell you we didn't, but I'd be lying. Hey, you've got my under pants. Want to hand them over, Spooky?" The Joker asked.

Crane narrowed his eyes. "No, I'm not going to give them back."

"What're you going to do? You don't have the hips to wear them. They'd just fall right off your body." The Joker said.

"I'm not going to wear them! The mere thought makes me shiver. Who knows what kind of diseases you've contracted." The Scarecrow said.

Before the Joker could make any cracks about STDs, Crane strode across the basement, the boxers in tow. He reached a table laden with scientific instruments. The Scarecrow only had eyes for one thing: the Bunsen burner. Heat was notoriously good at destroying everything from viruses to the California hillsides. Now fire would be tested against Gotham's most infamous underwear.

"Don't you dare set my pants on fire." The Joker said.

"Why not? It'll be funny. I did say I was going to _lighten up_." With one hand, Crane lit the burner. Before the Joker could tackle him or grab something breakable to slam against his head, the Scarecrow dropped the boxers onto the little flame.

A Bunsen burner was far from a bonfire. The little spark of flame took nest on the pants, but expanded slowly. Before the underwear could really catch, the Joker had his hands wrapped around Crane's neck and was squeezing.

Strangling the Scarecrow was quite a bit like strangling a chicken. Both had such thin necks, and both made roughly the same noise. Of course, a chicken didn't try to dig its fingers into its attacker's eye sockets.

While the Joker tightened his hands and Crane thrashed desperately to breathe, the underwear was entirely consumed by flame. All the synthetic fibers in the pants created a thick cloud of black smoke. That smoke set off the smoke detectors. An annoying alarm began to sound.

Harley, who was upstairs and mopping some of the water from the drowned bathroom, dropped her mop. She ran down into the kitchen, nearly slipping in the puddle that had formed in the middle of the floor. Luckily, she knew exactly where Crane kept his fire extinguisher. After their last hideout went up in a nuclear fireball that set half the block alight, Harley was much keener on fire safety.

"The fire woman's on the way! Stop, drop and roll!" Harley yelled.

She descended the steps two at a time, clutching the CO2 fire extinguisher to her chest the way a football player would hold a ball. The air was smoky, but not so thick with it she couldn't see. Upon catching sight of what her Puddin' was doing to Professor Crane, Harley gasped.

"Mister J! Stop it, you're killin' him!" Harley cried.

"Don't worry, Harley-Bear. The killing's almost done. Stop wiggling, Spooky." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow was quickly approaching the clearing at the end of the path. Normally pale, he was taking on a disquieting blue tinge. His hands were twitching, but not much else moved.

"Cool it, Puddin'!" Harley said. Even when saving a life, the clown couldn't avoid a little pun. She pulled the pin from the fire extinguisher, aimed it not at the smoldering ashes that had once been a pair of boxers but at the Joker, and squeezed the handle.

A jet of freezing white foam coated the Joker, turning him into a snowman. Yelping at the sudden blizzard, the Joker leapt off the Scarecrow.

"Cold! Ah, cold!" The Joker exclaimed. He ran around the basement, shedding foam as he went.

Harley directed the fire extinguisher at the Bunsen burner. She extinguished the Joker's hot pants.

With the fire out, Harley had no reason to hold onto the extinguisher. She threw it down and ran to the Scarecrow's side. She didn't bother to even check for a pulse, or consciousness for that matter, before beginning desperate CPR.

Crane's eyes went wide went Harley's lips met his. Unfortunately, it wasn't anything like a romantic _Lifetime _movie moment. Harley blew into his mouth as though she was trying to inflate a very large balloon with one breath. It got even worse when she interlaced her hands and began to pound on his chest.

"One, two, three, four, five." Harley said to herself. She continued to pound on the Scarecrow's narrow chest.

"Stop, I'm fine. No more CPR." The Scarecrow said. His voice came out in little more than a peep. His throat felt so raw it was as though he had been snacking on salted razor blades.

Harley stopped her chest compressions and blushed furiously. "You weren't dyin' were you? Did I just make a goon out of myself?"

"Appreciate the effort." Crane squeaked.

There were three things the Joker believed warranted the use of a fire extinguisher: fire, Shriekers, and Predators. Two of those things didn't even exist outside of movies. He wasn't on fire; he had only been teaching Spooky a lesson he wouldn't have time to forget. Harley had no right to douse him in freezing white foam. As soon as he melted, he was going to have a very loud and painful talk with Harley and her pet geek.

"Mister J isn't gonna be too happy." Harley muttered.

"Bugger him with a hot iron." The Scarecrow replied. He then raised a hand to his throat. Hell, it hurt to talk.

Harley took hold of his hand and tried to yank him to his feet. Before she could get Crane up, the Joker, still resembling a Yeti, kicked her in the back of the knees. Harley landed on the floor next to the Scarecrow. The Scarecrow fell back on his butt, bruised his tailbone, and sat there.

"Puddin'! That wasn't nice." Harley whimpered.

The Joker was wearing a scowl so cold it could have ended global warming. Crane swallowed compulsively. He had a terrible vision of the clown disassembling him piece by piece like a broken machine. The Scarecrow was vaguely aware of Harley clutching his arm for support. He wasn't going to be able to offer much comfort. He was just as scared as she was.

"I have just one thing to say to the two of you." The Joker said.

"What?" Crane rasped.

"Strike nine."

"_What_?" The Scarecrow asked.

"You needed _Harley_ of all people to rescue you. Do you know how pathetic that makes you? Bobby Fischer is manlier than you." The Joker said. He then burst into laughter. "The looks on your faces! It's priceless."

"You mean you ain't gonna kill us?" Harley asked.

"Not today. Well, probably not today. It's only three o'clock, after all." The Joker said.

"Shit." Crane said.

"I know what'll cheer you up, Spooky." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow shook his head. The Joker knew what would torment him, but the clown had probably never made anyone except his selfish self, and occasionally Harley, happy. He was about as good at bringing cheer as an outbreak of small pox would be.

"Yes I do. I know what makes _everyone _happy." The Clown Prince said.

A little light bulb of dim wattage began to flicker in the back of Crane's head. Something about the Joker's statement, and not just the obvious absurdity of the killer clown ever making anyone happy, tickled the Scarecrow in a bad way. He couldn't claim to have a nose for danger –after all, he had allowed the Joker into his home—but he was sure this wasn't going to end well.

"You're full of it. You wouldn't know what makes me happy; I don't even know what makes me happy half the time." The Scarecrow said. If he didn't stop all this talking, he was sure his abused throat was just going to cease working entirely. Then he'd have to spend the rest of his life like Nick Andros, writing everything on a piece of paper. That would be lovely. One day, he'd be fighting Batman (all right, getting utterly annihilated by the Bat) and he'd have to scribble about 60 notes, each reading 'ouch'.

The Joker was palming something. The horrible clown's right hand was gently clenching and relaxing, like he was playing with an overly fragile stress ball he was afraid of breaking. Scientists, like cops, had superior powers of observation. Though Crane didn't know what that stupid item was, or where the Joker had gotten it from, he knew he wanted no part of it.

"Just give me one minute. I swear I can put a smile on your face." The Joker said. Whatever he concealed in his hand was suddenly constricted tighter.

Harley, no longer clutching the Scarecrow's stick-figure arm, wanted to whack Professor Crane on the back of the head. Come on, how dense was he? She wasn't exactly Albert Einstein, and she knew her Puddin' was holding his recently salvaged flower. If Crane's brain didn't link some dendrites in a hurry, he was going to be wearing the last smile he'd ever smile.

Those dendrites finally did connect. The Scarecrow was a little slow when it came to puns and the Joker's sadistic sense of humor. Once he got the joke, however, he had no intention of laughing.

Crane's middle finger, only raised once at the Joker, was itching for more exercise. However, he fought off the urge to act like some antisocial teenager. It was survival time. There would be time to act belligerently later. He hoped.

"You pull that, the experiment fails. It would be the same as forfeiting a game. I can die with my mouth stretched back in the most hideous expression imaginable, but I'll die knowing I am not a nerd. I'll die knowing I won, even on a technicality." The Scarecrow said.

Well, Professor Crane was a goner. Harley sighed. He was a nice enough guy, he wasn't a mook, like some people, but nobody talked down the Joker. Nobody beat the Joker, either. Not on technicality, recount, or with Jeb Bush's help. The Bat might cart him back to Arkham, but that was only a temporary setback. Her Puddin' was eventually going to win it all. Poor Professor Crane was going to learn that.

"Spooky, do you even know how hokey that sounds? If they chiseled that speech on your tombstone, half the mourners would laugh, the other half would gag. If you were going for Mark Twain or anything with dignity or _cojones_, you failed. Want to try again, or should I just, uh, put you out of your dramatic misery?" The Joker asked.

"No, I'm done." The Scarecrow said. Bloody hell, he wished he had paid more attention during his poetry classes. Dying with T.S. Eliot or Ezra Pound on your lips, that was all right. Nobody, not even the barbarian in purple pinstripes, could shoot down Dickinson.

"Good. Any more of that and I would have fallen asleep." The Joker said.

The Joker brought his bright green flower up to the Scarecrow's eyes. Crane was deeply disappointed by the vehicle of his death sentence. It was a flower, a hippie symbol, something long-haired girls who didn't shave tucked behind their ears as they pranced around Charles Manson. It wasn't like an axe, or a knife, or a gun. At least traditional murder weapons had an ominous look, instead of petals.

The Clown Prince squeezed his trick flower. Instead of the cloud of toxic gas Crane had been expecting, he was showered with wet green and purple paper balls. Most of them got stuck in his hair like weird snowflakes.

"Oh… That was supposed to be confetti, not spit balls. I guess the toilet water got in. I'm not sure if the joke is ruined, or if it's enhanced. Let's say it was enhanced, all right?" Having decided that raining flakes of toilet-soaked paper on Crane was the funniest thing ever performed by mortal hands, the Joker doubled over with laughter.

The Scarecrow blinked in confusion. What in the hell was going on here? How did this make any sense? What kind of herb was the Joker smoking?

Harley, whose sense of humor was joined at the hip with her man's, also burst out laughing. She ended up on her back, slapping the floor. Crane was left even more bewildered.

"You don't get it, do you, Johnny? Something that puts a smile on everyone's face? " The Joker asked.

Crane scowled. "I am not the Riddler."

The Joker stopped laughing and crossed his arms. "Yeesh. Are you dead inside or something?"

"Come on, Professor Crane! You don't need to be a genius to get it. It's a good joke." Harley said.

"What's a good joke?"

Harley sighed in exasperation. "The answer, duh."

The Scarecrow was now baffled. He could look at the space shuttle schematics and make more sense of those than of the current situation.

"I know something that puts a smile on everyone's face. You obviously thought it was laughing gas. That works, too. But the answer we were going for was 'a good joke'. So sorry, thanks for playing, please try again." The Joker said.

"That's sick. Honest to God, whether he exists or not, that's sick." Crane said.

"No, his dead baby jokes are sick. I don't see what's wrong with playin' a little prank. I mean, Mister J's right. A good joke should make anybody happy." Harley said.

"Anyone with a sense of humor, that is. Johnny obviously hasn't got one. Is that another strike? Do nerds have a sense of humor?" The Joker asked.

"I think so, Mister J. Nerds haven't got very good senses of humor, but they still got them." Harley said.

"I thought I was going to _die_. How is anything supposed to be funny then?" Crane demanded.

The Joker shrugged. "I always wanted to die laughing. "

"Of course you do. Hell, I hope you don't die quickly. I hope you get to laugh _a long time_." The Scarecrow said.

"Spooky, if I was you, I'd shut up."

"I'm only saying I hope you get your wish and have months to enjoy it." Crane said. Sarcasm dripped from his words like melted ice cream.

Harley, having lived with the Joker for so long, had developed a kind of ESP. Spiderman had his Spider Sense, and Harley had what she called her Puddin' Sense. She could take one look at her Clown Prince and instantly tell how close he was to a violent outburst. Harley could also predict, with high accuracy, what kind of outburst it would be. Sometimes the Joker was more prone to beating, choking, cursing, dismembering, drowning, electrocuting, exploding, flattening, kicking, poisoning, shooting, slapping, squishing, stabbing, stomping and whacking. It all depended on what muscles twitched, how much he disliked the person he was contemplating the murder of, and how much fun each option would be.

Right now, judging by way the Joker was massacring his flower, he was contemplating how it would feel to snap every bone in the Scarecrow's hands. Crane, having lived with the demented clown only a week, had not discovered the best way to read the Joker's emotions. Harley supposed the Scarecrow's obvious lack of empathy wasn't doing him any favors. After all, how could a guy be expected to gauge feelings when he thought fear was just the best, most exciting thing under the sun?

Sure enough, the Joker pounced on the Scarecrow. Crane, knocked back to the floor, was ready this time. In classic _Three Stooges_ fashion, the Scarecrow poked the Joker in the eyes.

Before it could escalate from Moe, Larry and Curly into World War III, Harley scurried over to the fire extinguisher. This time, she hosed both the Joker and Scarecrow. They immediately stopped whaling on each other and began to cry about how cold it was.

"All right, boys. I know it's real difficult for both of you, but it's time to be civil. Let's all go up stairs and clean up, kay?" Harley asked.

Covered in freezing carbon dioxide foam, and having no body fat to serve as any insulation whatsoever, Crane was only too happy to agree. The Joker, having no shirt to act as a buffer, was forced to do the same. However, he wasn't going to be civil about it.

"I get the downstairs bathroom. Johnny can wade through the toilet water. Ha." The Joker said triumphantly.

"I'll just go outside and use the garden hose. I don't care." Crane replied.

Scowling because he had not been given the last laugh, the Joker stomped up the stairs. Harley followed at a safe distance. Once both of them were up on the ground floor, the Scarecrow climbed out of the cellar, too.

A garden hose was not the best thing to take a very long shower with; its spray was icy cold, and designed to water tomatoes, not clean people. The Scarecrow had to wash off not just the foam, but whatever hideous things the Joker had drawn on his face in permanent marker. By the time Crane was satisfied that he had at least muted the marker, he was shivering from continued exposure to such glacial water. He was soaked for the third time in three hours. It was really time to change clothes. He had been putting it off for obvious reasons. Now, the Scarecrow had two choices: develop hypothermia or take his clothes off.

He was not looking forward to getting naked in the same house with the Joker. If not for public indecency laws and spying neighbors only too happy to call the police, he would have rather changed in the middle of the street.

Yes, he honestly did hate the Joker that much.

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Author's Notes: The Beast of Bray Road is supposedly either a werewolf or a dog-man from the dark woods of Wisconsin. There's no way to make that sound scary. Anyway, I'm assuming it howls.

Shriekers and Predators are both famous for seeing heat. In the films _Tremors 2 & _3_, _fire extinguishers are used to block the Shriekers' vision.

Bobby Fischer was a world-famous chess player.

Nick Andros was a deaf-mute from _The Stand_. He had to write everything down.

The Jeb Bush comment is a dig at the 2000 Election. 9 years later, it still works.


	6. Mop Man

I love the reviews!

To J-Horror Girl and Purple Ghost Sausage: I'm glad you enjoy the references. I absolutely love writing them, and I really don't know why.

Rvish: Stephen King is my favorite author of all time.

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The door was locked. While Crane had been in the backyard hosing himself off, the damned Joker had locked him out of his own home. The Scarecrow, for reasons of security, didn't keep a spare key hidden anywhere. Now, he was wishing he had taken the risk.

Like Fred Flintstone pounding on the door and screaming "Wilma!", Crane was forced to do the same thing. He shouted "clown" instead of Wilma, but pounded with the same frustration. He was freezing, despite the relative warmth of the day. He was also venomously mad.

The Joker, who had been enjoying hot water and soap, as well as Harley scrubbing his back for him, smirked. Poor, poor, stupid Scarecrow. All his supposed brains, which he never seemed to shut up about, were not going to get him through that door.

Harley appeared in the bathroom doorway, holding a folded towel. The Joker took one look at her, two at the towel in her hands, and frowned.

"What color is that towel?" He asked.

"Gray?" Harley replied uncertainly.

"And what are the only two colors worthy of drying my glorious backside?" The Joker inquired.

"Green and purple."

"Do you see the problem, Harley?" The clown asked.

"But, Puddin', this is all Professor Crane has. Gray and white. There was a brown rag, but I think it might be part of his costume, or something." Harley said.

The Joker stuck his tongue out in disapproval. "What sort of deranged man only has gray and white towels? The humanity of it all!"

While the Joker moaned about the Scarecrow's lifeless color scheme, Crane had more important things to worry about. He needed a way into his house. The doors, both the front and back, were locked. That left only the windows. He knew the large living room window was out. It was the most obvious path for any burglar to climb through, so he always made sure it was locked. The downstairs bathroom window was probably open for ventilation purposes, but the Scarecrow was not going to risk falling on top of a naked and freshly showered Joker. The sight alone would blind him, and maybe even stop his heart.

That left the kitchen window. It had been opened in one hell of a hurry four days ago, back when the cupboards weren't bare. The Joker had been cooking a can of chicken soap. Then he had gotten bored of watching it simmer. Like a kid with ADHD, he had wandered off to find something more stimulating without bothering to turn off the stove. By the time he remembered the soup, it had boiled down to black noodles and caught on fire. In desperate need to dispose of the flaming pot, he had opened the kitchen window and thrown the whole mess, pot included, out into the yard.

Crane couldn't remember if he had locked the window afterwards. He had been so furious at having one of his few pieces of kitchenware destroyed, he probably hadn't. It looked like the Scarecrow had his entrance.

The window, as in many kitchens, was directly above the sink. Luckily, no food meant no dirty dishes. There weren't any knives just waiting to impale the Scarecrow's foot, or forks fated to stab the sensitive webbing between his fingers. Maybe running out of supplies wasn't always a bad thing.

Miracle of miracles, the window was open! The same God who people claimed ran the entire universe with the precision of a Swiss watch took time out of his busy schedule to make sure one window was unlatched so a villain with a large monetary reward on his head could slither through it. If Crane wasn't so thankful to find the window sliding up with no problems, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it.

Hoping the Joker was still singing in the shower, or scrubbing Harley's toes, or whatever kind of freaky things he did in the bathroom, Crane boosted himself through the window. His height and almost unnatural thinness served him greatly. A man with any kind of gut would have gotten stuck and required rescue.

Consisting of mainly arms and legs, like a terrestrial octopus, Crane soon found his physique to be problem. With his upper half through the window, he had no place to put his lanky limbs. Between the sink and the floor was a three foot drop. He did not much like the idea of falling flat on his face; he didn't like the idea of dangling like a half-born giraffe much more.

"Mother-grabbing bastard." Crane muttered. He was trapped in a classic Catch-22. If he wasn't so tall, he wouldn't have been able to reach the window to begin with. Because he was so tall, he was now faced with either giving up and throwing a rock through the living room window or trying to fall with grace. He minds well try to lasso the sun while he was at it.

"Come on, Jonathan. It's not like you were never dropped on your head before." The Scarecrow said. It was sad but true. Crane knew a thing or two about head injuries. Between Batman, the boys and girls in blue and old ladies with anvils in their purses, he'd taken a few good knocks to the brain.

Whether it required falling through a window or climbing down the chimney like Santa after three years of crash dieting, Crane was getting inside his house. Resolute, he pushed himself over the edge of the sink. His stork-like legs finally cleared the window. Unfortunately, they did so in a hurry. The Scarecrow tried to brace himself with his hands, only to be a little too slow. He got his right hand down in time, only to plant his face before his left hand. Linoleum, though not as hard as diamonds, wasn't exactly a feather mattress, either.

The Scarecrow toppled over. The resulting crash brought Harley and the Joker running. Crane was outraged to see the Joker was wearing nothing but a towel—Crane's towel!—wrapped around his waist. There went one more item he'd have to incinerate for sanitary purposes.

"You locked the door." Crane accused.

"Do you think I want a stranger wandering in while I'm showering? No thanks, Spooky." The Joker said.

"I had to climb in the window." The Scarecrow said.

"Yeah, we can see that, Professor. You didn't do a very good job of it, huh?" Harley asked.

The Joker smirked. "I guess you know what that means, Johnny-Boy. Strike ten, for not having any athletic talent at all. How many times did they pummel you with dodge balls during Gym, anyway? If I ended up on the same sports team as you, I'd break my leg on purpose."

Crane didn't waste his breath on a response. Anyone who took one look at him, or at the collection of chemistry books he read like some kids read comics, knew Peg the Scarecrow had been the unofficial sport of his high school. To this day, dodge balls had a special place in the darkest recesses of Crane's heart.

Trying to ignore the Joker's laughter and taunts, the Scarecrow forced his legs to cooperate. He absolutely refused to cringe at the sick clown's mention of badminton, despite the memories it dredged up from the dark depths. With all the dignity he had, and it wasn't enough to fill a tablespoon, Crane exited the kitchen. He was going up to his bedroom. If the Joker followed, he was going to push the lunatic down the stairs.

"Come on, Spooky! Regale us with stories of your baseball heroics! What about basketball? Swimming? Wait, the Scarecrow in a bathing suit? Ugh. I don't want that image." The Joker said.

"Would you kindly take a long walk off a short pier?" Crane muttered. He didn't have the voice, or the motivation to shout it.

The Scarecrow reached the second floor without any interference. Before he could enter his bedroom, he noticed that the linen closet adjacent to the bathroom had been ransacked. His towels were strewn all over the hall. Some of them were still neatly folded, but most of them were unfurled. Crane felt that desire to murder a great many people surface again. Didn't the Joker realize how difficult it was for a man on the lam to do a decent load of laundry? He could get hauled away while trying to buy fabric softener!

Since he was still dripping water from his clothes, Crane decided he would need one of those towels. He selected one that was folded, praying the Joker hadn't touched it for any length of time. With his gray towel in hand, the Scarecrow retreated to his room.

Much to the Scarecrow's chagrin, he found an intruder sprawled out on his bed. Lou, looking as comfortable as any hyena in all of history, was resting on his back. His paws were in the air, his tongue was hanging out, and he almost appeared to be smiling. Crane wasn't about to disturb 150 pounds of powerful scavenger. All he could do was hope the hyena wasn't spreading fleas or ticks all over his bed.

"Enjoying _my_ bed, Lou? I still would rather your company to that clown's." Crane said.

While Lou rolled around, no doubt shedding a monstrous amount of scratchy fur and hyena dandruff, the Scarecrow went to his closet. He was a minimalist, having little in the way of furniture, foodstuffs, and clothing. Hanging in the closet, there was only two other outfits.

It wasn't only the need to travel lightly that kept Crane's wardrobe scarce. He wasn't exactly an easy man to shop for. Most men his height outweighed him by 50 pounds or more. The fact that people kept getting fatter wasn't helping the Scarecrow, either. In the near future, he might be reduced to sewing his own clothing. He had made his costume with his own two hands, but burlap was an ugly fabric. It didn't take Tim Gunn to sew a frightening sackcloth mask. Any kid with a needle and thread, and bad thoughts in his head, could probably manage. Cotton, denim, polyester and nylon wouldn't be so forgiving.

While some company in India or Vietnam still made clothes he could wear, the Scarecrow was happy to take advantage of them. Seeing as how he was like a woman with a size 13 shoe, he had to take what he could get, no matter the style or fashion. The sole condition was that the clothing had to be long-sleeved. Crane was not like those beach-goers who resembled stranded porpoises and insisted they still looked good in Spandex. He knew how scrawny he was, and had the decency to save others the trauma.

Crane's low standards were apparent on the two outfits hanging in his closet. They were severely mismatched. One shirt was a drab gray, similar to the towels. The other he had snatched from a thrift store after the clerk recognized him from the nightly news and forced him to run for it. That shirt was a bright St. Patrick's Day green. It was so vivid it might honestly glow in the dark. Crane shuddered at the sight of it. He must have been suffering from a concussion to even consider stealing something so bright and garish.

"Green is out." The Scarecrow said. There was no way he was going to wear the same color as the Joker.

At least the pants wouldn't be a problem. Both were slacks, and each had been faded by approximately four hundred washes. A normal person would never have risked police intervention to nick two worn pair of pants. Crane, however, was probably the only man on the planet who would say his favorite color was gray.

Though it might have been mere coincidence, Lou barked a trademarked hyena laugh when the Scarecrow stripped off his shirt. Crane gave the scavenger a look that could have made birds fall dead off telephone lines. The hyena apparently had a very strong constitution, or was secure in the knowledge that if the Scarecrow tried to do him in, Harley and the Joker would torture Crane to death in retribution.

"It isn't funny in the least. I know I'm a bag of bones. I don't need a beast reminding me." The Scarecrow said.

Lou's tongue flopped from his mouth, like a slimy pink eel. Every time the hyena did that in front of Harley, she probably smothered him in kisses and cooed about how adorable her baby was. Crane restrained the urge to deliver a kick to the animal's hindquarters.

"Mangy, unclean, carcass-picking laughingstock of the Savanna, that's what you are. You deserve to be back in Kenya, with a lion chewing on you." The Scarecrow said.

The hyena's ears pricked up. Despite his annoyance at Lou, Crane couldn't help but note something. Scientifically and genetically, hyenas were much closer to cats than to dogs. Bud and Lou, however, behaved more like canines. It was almost like Harley treating them like dogs, with the fetching, letting the hyenas sleep in her bed, and rolling down car windows so they could stick their heads out, was making them into dogs. As a (former) psychiatrist, Crane found this interesting. It seemed to answer the age old question about nature versus nurture. With Bud and Lou, it all came down to the disgusting amount of nurturing Harley did. Fascinating.

"If I wasn't in constant danger of being dragged back to Arkham, there might be a decent research paper in you and your brother." Crane told the hyena.

Were Bud and Lou really brothers? The Scarecrow realized he had never asked any questions about the two mutts. Maybe, if he believed the Joker wouldn't humiliate him for it, he could ask Harley to enlighten him about her babies. There were certainly some things his inquiring mind wanted to know: where the hyenas had actually come from, if they were from the same litter, and how effective they were against the Bat, just for starters.

He could always ponder these questions later. For now, all Crane wanted was dry clothing and a few minutes of peace. It would be helpful if the hyena would look somewhere else, or leave the room entirely, but the Scarecrow was not embarrassed enough at his bony self to shoo the mutt out.

"If you go blind, don't tell Harley I didn't warn you. That mad bastard of hers will probably put my eyes out." The Scarecrow said.

The Scarecrow stepped out of the rest of his clothing. He quickly wrapped the towel around himself, once again grimacing at the idea the Joker had laid his mitts on it. Crane made sure the door was still closed, the hyena wasn't cackling, and the window shades were drawn. He hurriedly dried himself off. Once he was sure he wasn't going to soak his new clothes, he threw them on. He got the shirt on backwards, and hastily turned it around. The tag scratched at his neck like the hairy legs of a tarantula.

Now that he was dry for the first time in hours, Crane decided his house should be given the same treatment. He had enough troubles without adding mold to them.

Neglecting socks, which would just get soaked on the flooded carpet around the bathroom, the Scarecrow left his room. The second floor was still abandoned. Below him, he could hear Harley and the Joker arguing over something. He hoped it didn't involve him.

On his way to the bathroom, Crane picked up a few of the towels. He threw them down on the squishy, swamped carpet. What he really needed right now were some of those magic German squeegees, the ShamWow.

Once the problem outside was covered up and forgotten about, the Scarecrow entered the bathroom. He was mildly amazed to find a mop and bucket sitting in the middle of the floor. It must have been Harley; the dear child had a kind heart, despite the best efforts of her lunatic lover. Crane was now glad he hadn't abused Lou too badly.

The Scarecrow went about mopping up all the water the toilet had disgorged. When the bucket was full, he poured it down the drain in the bath tub. Taking three gallons of water off the floor, Crane discovered, was hardly noticeable. The Gotham Aquarium could still open a new exhibit in the here. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have some piranhas swimming around. The Joker would think twice before clogging up the toilet, that was for sure.

Nine gallons of water later, and the floor was merely damped, as opposed to 40 days and nights of rain submerged. Crane and his mop were certainly winning the battle. Things were going his way.

That couldn't last, because Crane's name was blacklisted under every deity of every major and minor religion. Just as he was emptying another bucket down the drain, the Joker appeared in the door. The clown took in domestic Crane, his new outfit, and his floppy mop. The only logical response to the scene was to fall over laughing.

"Johnny the housewife! Johnny, the new Martha Stewart! Johnny, Lord of the Mops!" The Joker exclaimed.

"You damn dirty clown." Crane muttered.

"And what are you wearing? You look like the Gray Lady. If I had any empathy at all, I'd feel bad for you." The Joker said. "Do I even need to say it?"

"Strike eleven?" The Scarecrow asked threw gritted teeth. He was one more chuckle away from using his mop like a lance and stabbing the Joker in the face with it.

"You are smart, Spooky." The Joker said.

"Yes, I know. Now, would you mind getting out of my bathroom? I still have to dry that lake under the sink." The Scarecrow said.

"There's nothing to do downstairs." The clown complained.

"Why don't you stick your finger in a socket or drink the chemicals under the sink?" Crane suggested.

"Why don't you let me break your arm in six places?"

The Scarecrow glared. His throat still hurt too much to risk another tangle with the demented, grinning freak just yet. As much as Crane hated it, he didn't really have another option. He'd just have to ignore the Joker's presence and finish cleaning up the bathroom.

When the Scarecrow turned his back on the Joker and began mopping again, the clown soon became jaded. To regain the center of attention, the Joker started to sing a little ditty that followed the beat of _Frosty the Snowman_. It was called "Johnny, the Mop Man" and was perhaps the worst song ever composed.

Crane endured six choruses of "Johnny the Mop Man was a grumpy, nerdy soul" before throwing his mop down in disgust. He was at the very end of his endurance. He honestly couldn't take any more. He had one escape, two if he included suicide. He'd just have to do one final nerdy thing, and he'd be free.

There was nothing, not dignity, not pride, not scientific credibility, that was worth the Joker's singing voice.

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Author's Notes:

Tim Gunn is a fashion designer and host of _Project Runway_.

Ah, the Shamwow. If you haven't seen the commercials, you probably don't own a TV. It's this supposedly magic towel that can absorb like 20 times its own weight.

"You damn dirty clown" is a play of "You damn dirty ape" from _Planet of the Apes_.

The Gray Lady is a ghost from _Harry Potter_. There is also a non-magical Gray Lady who haunts a library in Evansville, Indiana. She's got her own website.


	7. Voldemort's Fingers

Wow, 29 reviews. I am just so pleased.

Lauralot: I just wanted to tell you that you are my absolute favorite author on this site! I love your stories, and I'm so honored you reviewed my fic. I am humble before you.

J-Horror Girl: No, don't report me for Scarecrow abuse. I'll have a serious problem writing this from prison, or wherever they send you for being cruel to Batman characters.

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The Scarecrow found his opportunity to be geeky after only three minutes. While he was attempting to escape from the Joker, who was stilling singing _Johnny the Mop Man_ and had added a few new and off-key verses, Crane came across Harley. She was in the kitchen, using an entire roll of paper towels to soak up the water that had leaked from the floor above.

"Child, do you have any idea about how wasteful that is? Paper comes from trees, and trees keep our planet from turning into Venus. Use a dish towel, or retrieve the mop from upstairs." Crane said.

Harley grinned sheepishly. "Oh, yeah. Red's always tellin' me that I got to be more environmentally aware. Thanks for remindin' me."

"Good job, Spooky. It's great that you're trying to save the rainforests, you hippie." The Joker said. He actually patted the Scarecrow on the back.

"Yeah, way to be green, Professor. I'll have to tell Red next time I see her. She'll be real happy at least one of us is trying to save the planet. See, she's pretty mad at Mister J because of all the hideouts he's burned down and all the nasty chemicals he uses. She says he's got a carbon footprint the size of New Jersey, and if he doesn't stop she's gonna feed him to her giant flytrap. I named it Mel." Harley said.

"Harley-girl, Red is a plant-o-phile." The Joker said. "She probably has a special pussy willow that-"

Crane could listen to some really weird shit, but Poison Ivy's sexual habits were not included. Before the Joker could make any more smutty comments, the Scarecrow exited stage left.

The Joker drowned out Harley's jabbering about how Red was neither a lesbian nor some kind of botanical pervert who got off on pansies and goldenrod. He was too busy watching Crane make a bee line for the stairs, and the false protection of his bedroom. It really was rude of Spooky to run away before even hearing the punch line of the pussy willow joke. Was he honestly such a wimpy prude he couldn't handle one itsy, bitsy, harmless, anti-feminist joke involving a vibrating flowering tree? If so, it looked like Johnny was going to get strike 12. And a good kick to the head for being so offensive

"Hey, Johnny. When I'm telling a joke, you sit back and enjoy it." The Joker said. Harley heard the cold undercurrent, as dangerous as a riptide, and wondered how much foam the average fire extinguisher held.

"If you ever manage to find a good one, I'll listen. Until then, torture Harley with them." Crane replied from halfway up the stairs.

Harley slapped a hand to her forehead. That was a d'oh move if there ever was one. You could insult Mister J's…well, you couldn't really insult Mister J's anything without him taking a tire iron or an exploding rubber chicken to you. But of all his things you shouldn't insult, his jokes were without a doubt the number one item on the list. The only people who would even think about it were suicidal masochists and disgraced college professors who somehow, for all their brains, had zilch in the way of survival instincts.

The Scarecrow was more perceptive of his mistake than Harley gave him credit for. He knew, as soon as the words left his mouth, that he had just shot himself in the foot. With a bazooka. Once, in Arkham, he had made the mistake of telling Two-Face that his coin was, without a doubt, the most asinine coping mechanism Crane had ever come across. He had ended up with a size 12 shoe print stamped on his face and a broken nose. As protective as Two-Face was over his coin, it was as valuable as a fast food wrapped on the side of a major interstate compared to the Joker's jokes. After all, Two-Face didn't call himself 'the Coin Flipper' or 'Captain Can't Make Up My Own Damned Mind'.

The Joker appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his hands on his hips. He was scowling, which was never a good sign. The fact that Harley was standing well back was also ominous. If Harley was nervous, Crane also had a reason to be.

"Spooky, did you just dare question the quality of my jokes? I have over fifty thousand guaranteed gems! Do you know how much time and energy it took, how many joke books I had to read, how many comedians I had to cut up?" The Joker demanded.

"Not enough, apparently." Crane muttered. He was not stupid enough to say it to the killer clown directly. Sarcasm right now might be as lethal as playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.

"Harley, how many comedians did I cut up?" The Joker asked.

"Uh, hold on a second, Mister J. There was that guy who wore the stupid hat, the guy who told the worst Yo-Mamma jokes ever, the lady with the bad hair, the guy who said he was the funniest Asian alive, but wasn't funny at all-" Harley said. She counted off her fingers. When she ran out of digits, she started over again.

The Scarecrow stopped three steps from the top landing. As much as he wanted to retreat to his room, and maybe use Lou as a barrier, a morbid curiosity gripped him. Unless his math was wrong, as if that was possible, Harley had named 17 unlucky and untalented comedians the Joker had finished. It was just like Hannibal Lecter killing and serving the musician who ruined the symphony with his horrendous playing. Crane wondered if the Joker had sent bits of the failed comedians to their friends, warning them to either polish their jokes or hang up the rubber chickens.

"Right. The point this, _they_ had bad jokes. I have all the good jokes. You don't have a sense of humor, so you don't have the right to judge. Apologize for being such a prejudiced, judgmental bag of straw." The Clown Prince demanded.

"Of course. As soon as you apologize for eating me out of house and home, assaulting me, cutting up my single set of sheets, leaving your underwear in my lab, contaminating my workplace with all manner of bodily fluids, and forcing me to crawl through the window." Crane replied.

"This isn't about you and your little problems. You insulted my jokes! I _am_ my jokes. When you insult them, you insult everything about me; my snappy suit, my girl, my girl's pets, my hair and my stylish good looks." The Joker said.

"It _is_ about me! This is my house, you're my unwanted guests, and it's my physical body that's been repeatedly damaged and abused!" The Scarecrow shouted.

"I thought you were going to turn down the whining. You're worse than Harley when I leave the toilet seat up." The Joker said.

Crane stopped retreating. He had done a good deal of running during his life, usually from a great winged black shape intent on stopping his legitimate research, and he was not going to do the same for an incorrigibly criminal clown in a purple suit. He was making his stand on this staircase, at least while he had the higher ground and the Joker was unarmed.

Like two duelists ready to shoot each other dead over some petty offense, the Joker and Crane approached each other. The Joker did the majority of the approaching; the Scarecrow took all of three baby steps. He wanted to give up as little of his all ready pale advantage as possible. History and courtesy might have two duelists meet in the middle of a field, but no would-be gunslinger had ever had to go up against the Joker.

There was still perhaps a three foot gap between the clown and the Scarecrow. The Joker bridged this distance with his arm, poking Crane in the chest with one long, white finger.

"Are you going to take it back now, or am I going to have to do some more of that damaging and abusing you just mentioned?" The Joker asked. He jabbed the Scarecrow a few more times for emphasis, and then again just because he knew it would offend Spooky.

"I all ready explained that I will apologize as soon as you do. Also, please refrain from touching me with your disgusting, pale fingers. You've got hands like Voldemort." Crane said.

The Joker withdrew his poking finger. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

"Is what a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Having fingers like this Voldemort guy. Who is he, a mobster, a thug, a geeky friend of yours from the few years you might have actually had friends?" The Joker asked.

This was awkward. The Scarecrow had been quite sure everyone, even the Joker who probably read as often as he donated money to orphan children, knew who the evil wizard Voldemort was. They had made movies, hadn't they? Surely the Joker was physically incapable of escaping the knowledge that a British woman who now owned about half the money Bill Gates didn't had written a series of worldwide best sellers. Wasn't he?

"You honestly don't know?" Crane asked.

"No, I don't. I want you to enlighten me right now. Who have I got fingers like? Are they famous? I think the name makes him sound French. Is it the French president? Are you insinuating something?" The Clown Prince demanded.

"The French president's name is Sarkozy, not Voldemort. I know you don't watch the news, and neither can I since the television was executed, so I won't blame you for being oblivious to that." The Scarecrow said.

"Forget the sex jokes and the fingers. You actually know the President of _France_? I hardly know the President of America! You, Johnny, are now officially a certified nerd. I win, you are a geek, and I still want to know who Voldemort is so I can celebrate without having anything to nag me. Except Harley, that is. I think I'll keep her around." The Joker said.

"He's an evil wizard from a book."

"Strike 13, for backup! Ha!" The clown said.

Crane shook his head slowly. He honestly found himself more amused than angry over the end of the Joker's unscientific game. He had avoided getting in a fight he would almost certainly lose, hadn't gotten any teeth knocked out over a fictional wizard, and was now free. As a bonus, he'd be able to get some food. And, he figured, a first aid kit wouldn't be such a bad idea, either.

"I'll just head off to the supermarket then, all right?" Crane asked.

The Joker had been expecting, upon the experiment's completion, a violent, loud, annoying reaction from Spooky. This calm, _laissez-faire_, what the hell ever attitude wasn't any fun. He wanted Crane miserable.

"Not until Harley and I make shopping lists. I don't trust you to buy anything good. You don't know what I like." The Joker said.

"Cupcakes, gummy worms, and spaghetti that comes in a can." The Scarecrow replied.

"That isn't _all _I like." The Joker said.

"Gotham supermarkets don't usually carry atomic weapons or exploding confetti." Crane pointed out.

"I mean all I like _to eat_. Now, shut up, Spooky. I have to go and have a long conversation with my gut. Go tell Harley to make her list." The Clown Prince ordered.

Crane gave the clown a mock salute and marched past him. The Joker gave him a sharp whack on the back of the head as he passed. The Scarecrow barely avoided losing his balance, and decided to be off before the brainless clown pushed him down the stairs and into a broken neck.

Harley was in the living room, sitting on the couch. She was resting her feet on Bud, who was sleeping in a scrunched up lump. When the Scarecrow, looking decidedly more annoyed than he did five minutes ago, stepped off the staircase, Harley waved.

"Hi, Professor Crane. I heard that you're now officially a nerd. That's okay. At least we all get to eat." She said brightly.

Harley Quinn, as ebullient and bouncy as a beach ball. The Scarecrow was jealous of the blonde's never-ending energy and cheer. How insane was she, truly, to be able to giggle and find the sunny side after the years she had spent as the Joker's personal doormat?

"Your demented, sick, twisted, Puddin' wants you to make a shopping list. He apparently doesn't trust me." Crane said.

"Actually, Professor, it's probably for the best. If you came home with broccoli, he'd force-feed it to you until you died. Mister J actually did that to someone once." Harley said.

Along with Poison Ivy's sexual fetishes, the Scarecrow had no desire to learn about how someone had been killed with greens. It was surely a graphic tale, and he would never be able to eat another salad or stir-fry without flashbacks.

The Scarecrow crouched down next to the sleeping hyena Harley was using as a footrest. "And what about you, Bud? Do you and Lou want anything special? Ostrich chops? Wildebeest roast? Leg of antelope?" They hyena yawned and snorted. He probably had been born in captivity, and didn't know a zebra from a UFO.

"Mommy knows what her Bud wants! Ramen noodles and lots of them. Right, baby? Yes, Bud loves his beef-flavored noodles. Yes he does!" Harley slipped off the couch and onto the floor. She began to play with the hyena's ears, and continued to speak to him in baby-talk.

Crane had never been a major fan of animals, as the mice down in his lab would happily testify. As much as he could tolerate Bud and Lou, watching Harley fawn over them as though they were actually her children was a little too much to tolerate. He left Harley to squeal at her precious mutt, as though the mangy thing was a member of the bloody Beatles fresh from England, and decided to get a drink of water while the Joker planned out his own death by sugar-stroke.

The Scarecrow did not waste money on bottled water. Unlike most people, he was entirely satisfied with what came from the tap. Until someone's city water caught on fire coming out of the faucet, he wasn't going to spend a dollar and a half on the most abundant resource on Earth.

Three glasses of water, much finger-drumming, some pacing, and some swearing later, the Joker finally finished writing his list. The clown proudly handed Crane a novella. The handwriting looked like it came from a kindergartner who had been born with the wrong number of fingers.

"This isn't a shopping list, it's a magazine!" Crane exclaimed.

"A clown's gotta eat, Johnny. Besides, you never set a limit on what I could ask for." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow scanned the first page of the list. The whole thing had to be at least as long as Santa's list of children from China. Even worse than the length and the absurdly poor penmanship were the contents. Crane had no idea what some of the items were. He wasn't even sure they were sold in American stores.

"You have six flavors of Ben and Jerry's ice-cream! Jesus please us, that's ridiculous." The Scarecrow moaned.

"No, it's not. See, I need them all, because they all have something different that I like. Chunky Monkey is banana-flavored. Half Baked has cookie dough. New York Super Fudge Chunk speaks for itself. S'mores just rocks beyond your level of comprehension. Triple Caramel Chunk has enough caramel to drown a goat in. Oh, and Harley likes Chocolate Therapy. I get her that when I want her to shut up and leave me alone for the night. It works every time." The Joker said.

"You're mad. You're absolutely starkers. I am not going to get you six different kinds of the same brand. There is no way in hell." Crane said.

"Flip to the last page, Spooky." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow did as he was told. On the back page, written in red magic marker, was a long message. The Joker had provided another list; this time, on the various ways he would torture Crane should he fail to provide everything. The Joker threatened everything from clogging up the toilet with the remains of the bed sheets, to stomping on Crane's fingers until they were no longer recognizable as fingers.

"Someone should shoot you." The Scarecrow said.

"Read the back of the last page." The clown replied.

"'If I die before you get back, my ghost will haunt you until you either convert to a religion so an exorcism can be performed, or until you kill yourself.' That's hollow. Ghosts don't exist. It's scientifically impossible." Crane said.

"Fine, then. Just don't be surprised when I float through the wall like Julius Caesar." The Joker said.

Crane threw up his hands in defeat. Of course, the Joker wouldn't believe in proper scientific procedure, but he had faith in exorcisms and ghosts. And he honestly believed there was something that would drive the Scarecrow to religion. That proved how diseased the clown's mind was.

"All right. I'll go and get this, as nonsensical as it is. Harley, are you finished with your list, yet?"

"Yep! I put Bud and Lou down on my list, 'cause none of them can write." Harley said.

Harley's list was much shorter, but her handwriting reflected that she had once studied medicine. Her handwriting was almost as awful as her boyfriend's. It was no wonder her patients tended to end up even crazier. No pharmacist in the world could correctly read what she prescribed. The only thing that allowed the Scarecrow to decipher the chicken scratch was his own background at Arkham.

"Brownies, nachos, 60 pounds of hamburger! What?!" Crane yelled.

"For Bud and Lou, Professor. They gotta have meat." Harley said.

"How do you propose I carry 60 pounds of hamburger? Child, this will break my back. I will come home slumped over like Igor." The Scarecrow said.

"I'm sorry. It ain't easy feedin' those two." Harley said.

"Between you and the Joker, this is impossible! I can't do it. I'll have to steal a flatbed truck to carry the food with. I can't drive a big rig, I don't have a Class A license, and I am not getting my face smashed in by a trucker." Crane said.

"Then you'll get your face smashed in by me." The Joker warned.

Crane felt his blood pressure rise into the stroke and aneurysm zone. There was no human way for him to get all those supplies from the supermarket back to his house, not without help. Totaled, the products on the two lists probably weighed twice as much as he did, if not more. He doubted if the Joker's car, hidden carefully underneath a tarp, even had room. That was moot speculation, because the clown would never entrust his flashy purple vehicle to the Scarecrow, but it had one big bugger of a trunk.

"I'll have to steal a pickup truck from the parking lot." Crane finally said.

"That's using the old noggin." The Clown Prince said.

Still clutching the two lists, the Scarecrow headed out of the kitchen. He was definitely going for the stairs, and from there, to his room.

"Hey, where are you going? I want to eat now, Spooky." The Joker said.

"I'm getting my mask and my toxin. There's no way I can legitimately pay for all this, so I'm going to steal it. Besides, I want to make someone as miserable as I am. If it's only a cashier and whoever gets behind me in line, so be it." Crane said. He was in such a foul mood, he was more than willing to poison a kid who made minimum wage and had terrible acne.

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Author's Notes: Hannibal serving the bad musician is from _Red Dragon_.

All those flavors of Ben and Jerry's are legitimate. And surely delicious.

I like spaghetti that comes from a can.

Julius Caesar's ghost appears to Brutus in the Shakespearean play titled _Julius Caesar_.

In the US, you need a Class A driver's license to operate any truck over 26,000 pounds.


	8. Hyena Kisses

Thank you all so much for the reviews. 37 at last count. Excellent.

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Crane had been very careful to hide his costume, and especially his mask, from the Joker. If the clown came across the precious outfit, the Scarecrow knew he'd defile it in some way. The Joker would sew the eye-holes shut in the mask, or remove the filters that protected Crane from his own toxins. To prevent any such embarrassing catastrophe, he had concealed his mask inside his pillow. The day Harley and the Joker had shown up on his doorstep like a couple of stray cats, Crane had taken preemptive measures. While they raided his fridge and fed all his hotdogs to the hyenas, he performed surgery on his pillow, inserting the burlap mask among the foam stuffing. Though he'd step in front of a bus before telling anyone this, he was deeply comforted at night by having his mask in such close proximity. The idea that the Master of Fear needed a security blanket was utterly ridiculous, but he would take comfort where it was offered.

The rest of the costume was concealed down in the basement. The Scarecrow did not keep all his eggs in one basket. If, by some off chance, the Joker found the main trappings of the outfit, he wouldn't get the mask, too. Right now, he didn't need the shirt, which was terribly itchy, or the pants, which weren't much better. Crane wanted to walk into the store relatively unnoticed, grab as much of the Joker's rambling shopping list as possible, and cause panic only once he was ready to leave.

As for the fear toxin, the Scarecrow had enough to send a small country, like Luxembourg or Liechtenstein, into screaming, hysterical fits. When he got down to the business of making his poison, he always tended to overdo it. He idly wondered what the Bat and the Gotham PD had done with all the fear toxin they'd confiscated over the years. Maybe they disposed of it properly, or poured it down the drain, or sold it on the black market to communists somewhere.

Whatever had become of his old batches didn't matter right now, or ever, really. All he needed was a canister or two of fresher stuff. Crane kept the poison down in his lab, because sleeping in the same room as a container of fear toxin was as smart as bedding down with a suicide bomber. Of course, to get down to his lab, he'd have to cross the Joker's path, again.

The Scarecrow undid the stitching in the pillow and removed his mask. He tucked it up the left sleeve of his shirt. Asides from concealing his meatless arms, long sleeves served another important function. They hid an assortment of items, his fear toxin being the most common. For a villain who relied on the element of surprise, a t-shirt was not an option.

With his mask safe, or at least somewhere the Joker couldn't see it, Crane decided to take his chances. He might be able to pull off a robbery without poisoning anyone, but he desperately needed something to brighten his mood. If he didn't hear some high-pitched screaming soon, he was going to have to write himself a prescription for some very potent happy pills.

Lou, who had been shedding all over the Scarecrow's bed not long ago, now emerged from his closet. Crane saw the great furry creature come padding out, a ghastly green thing in his mouth. Apparently, Lou was not yet done yakking down polyester. The shamrock green thing dangling in tatters was the Scarecrow's only other clothing.

"Good dog. That monstrosity needed to be put down." Crane said. Lou dropped the rag, his stubby tail thumping. The Scarecrow felt an uncharacteristic desire to wrestle with the hyena and squeeze him like a predatory teddy bear.

Logic dictated that one shirt was better than no shirt, but Crane's spirits were lifted just by having that tacky Paddy's Day reject destroyed. He would never have to look at it, sitting in his closet like some alien pod, and wonder why he had filched it. He just hoped Lou wouldn't end up with some sort of intestinal blockage. The last thing he needed was to return home laden with enough sugar to kill every diabetic in America, and to have to rush a sick hyena to a vet.

"They can eat bones and hoofs and be none the worse off. I'm sure a little cotton won't bother him." Crane reasoned.

Lou, his tail still wagging in pleasure, jumped back on Crane's bed. The Scarecrow didn't have any plans to sleep there, not until he got some new sheets, at least. Until then, the hyena could stretch out.

Crane poked his head out of the room, like a prairie dog scouting for danger. He looked left, right, and up, on the off chance the Joker was crawling across the ceiling like Spiderman. Luckily, the clown had not encountered any radioactive spiders as of late, and was nowhere to be found. He was probably looking for a nice piece of furniture to set on fire, or a white length of wall to doodle on.

The Scarecrow crept down the stairs. When he wasn't being harassed, he could be quite stealthy. A quick peek told him the Joker wasn't in the kitchen, or the living room. Harley was sprawled out on the floor next to Bud, who was licking her with a vengeance. She was giggling helplessly and trying to push 150 pounds of pest away.

"No, Bud! Let Mommy up, she's covered in enough spit." Harley laughed.

The Scarecrow was left with warring emotions. No doubt, the sight of Harley frolicking with her oversized Baby of another species gave Crane an alien warm feeling in his heart. However, the thought of the plethora of germs in Bud's mouth being spread all over Harley's face caused him great revulsion. Not to mention the mutt's breath. They might be cute, but they were also drooling diseases on four paws.

To no surprise, the cellar door was open. Of course, the Joker wouldn't be satisfied with the humiliation he had all ready inflicted. Crane could only imagine what horror he'd discover down in the lab. He only hoped some of his mice would be left alive.

Crane threw open the door hard enough to create a sonic boom. In the living room, Bud abruptly stopped trying to slurp off Harley's face and looked around. His ears were pricked. Harley had been surprised by the sudden slam, too.

"Uh, Professor, is somethin' wrong?" Harley asked.

"Is Sideshow Bob downstairs?" The Scarecrow asked.

"If you mean Mister J, yeah, probably. I wasn't really payin' attention, but I saw him go in the kitchen and not come back out." The clown replied.

"May I borrow your mallet, child?" Crane asked.

"Sorry, but I don't think it's a good idea. Puddin' might take it the wrong way, and uh, do you in." Harley replied.

No, he supposed antagonizing the Joker wasn't a particularly wise thing to do right now. It would certainly make the walk to the supermarket far less pleasant if he was profusely bleeding or suddenly lacking a foot. Maybe the bastard was just apologizing to the lab animals for all the misery he'd caused them. And maybe the ghosts of the founding fathers would appear in Washington tomorrow to clear up the Second Amendment.

The Joker was indeed in the lab, but he wasn't begging the pardon of the white mice, one of which, Crane noticed, had gone on to the big Cheddar fields in the sky. The demented clown was idly tossing a silver object into the air and catching it. For a brief second, the Scarecrow was reminded of Two-Face, habitually tossing his scarred coin. What the Joker was holding wasn't a badly damaged silver dollar, though. It was a canister of Crane's toxin.

"Hey, Johnny-boy. I figured you'd be coming to get this before long, so I did you a favor and got it for you. Pretty swell of me, huh?" The Joker asked.

"Yes, downright decent. Would you kindly hand it to me before it goes off? You may be immune to it, but neither I, nor my mice are." The Scarecrow said.

The canister was tossed higher, nearly hitting the ceiling. Crane's hands tightened into fists.

"I don't know how sensitive the trigger mechanism is on that particular canister. Please, stop juggling it!"

"You can't juggle with only one object, Spooky. Jeez, that would be so _boring_. Here, let me show you." The Joker said. He deftly caught the metal container, and picked up another from Crane's desk. Apparently, the psychopathic had found one of the Scarecrow's concealed caches.

The Joker tossed the two canisters into the air and began circulating them. It wasn't quite as dangerous as juggling with nitroglycerine or two lighted sticks of dynamite, but it was close. It certainly wasn't an act that any circus would be willing to pick up.

"You're delaying me. The longer you prevent me from leaving, the longer you go hungry. Please, just give me one of the canisters. You can stay here and do anything you want with the other. I won't protest, no matter how much you abuse my achievement." The Scarecrow offered.

"Why should I even give you one? Who needs poison to go shopping with? You can threaten the cashier with anything. I don't think it would be responsible for me to give you your fear toxin. It would be like selling a gun to, well, to me." The Joker said.

"If you don't give me my goddamn toxin right now, I'm not going anywhere. You can threaten me, hit me, tolchock me, and I'll let you. Good luck getting that ice cream, though. You couldn't walk into a store in _Afghanistan_ without being recognized." Crane said.

"Tolchock? Yeah, that sounds fun."

"No ice cream, no bologna sandwiches, no hamburger for Harley's Babies. Do you want _her_ on your ass, clown?" The Scarecrow asked.

"I don't want _anyone_ on my ass, especially not a girl with hyenas. I mean, those things can bite. But, you're overlooking one teeny, tiny little thing. I'm Harley's Puddin'! You're not even her landlord. I can turn her against you with one hand behind my back and light an exploding cigar with the other. You have nothing to threaten me with." The Joker said.

"Are you going to make Harley carry back 300 pounds of supplies, then? Good luck. I know you aren't going to do it, you lazy bastard. If you want to eat, I have to steal food. I'm not stealing food without at least one of the canisters you're juggling. _Quid pro quo_. Food for fear toxin." Crane said.

The Joker scowled. It seemed that whenever someone started tossing around Latin, the argument tended to go in their favor. He needed to learn some Greek, so he could sound like a bloody lawyer no matter what he was fighting over. That, or he could just carry a big stick around at all times, so he could crack it over the head of intellectuals like Johnny who weren't satisfied with being nerds in only their native language.

"Fine. Take your science experiment, Mop Man." The Joker stopped juggling, caught a canister in either hand, and lobbed one of them to Crane.

The Scarecrow caught the thrown canister, fumbled it, and almost ended up dropping it on the floor. There was a reason nobody in high school had wanted him on their baseball team. He couldn't catch.

"Nice save, Spooky. You're ready to play third base for the pitiful pack of whiners this city calls a baseball team." The Joker laughed.

"When I'm making millions and being chased by women, don't expect any autographs." Crane muttered. He had his toxin, at least enough of it to cause some mayhem, and he was not going to get shanghaied into another fight over how unskilled he was at all things athletic.

Crane decided he would properly secure the canister later. For now, all he wanted was to be out the front door, and into the open air. It would be nice to get a breath that didn't carry the faint odor of hyenas.

As soon as the Scarecrow's back was turned, the Joker knew exactly what he wanted to do with the toxin he still had. With none of the gentleness of the first toss, he whipped the canister at the unsuspecting Scarecrow. It struck him on his right shoulder hard enough to leave a fist-sized welt, ricocheted off, and rolled across the floor. Crane yelped, grabbed at his injured part, and swore. In the middle of shouting the seven words you can't say on television, the Scarecrow became aware of an ominous hissing sound.

"Bollocks." Crane said. The thing that had just hit him was obviously the second canister the Joker had been juggling. Of course, the impact, either with his scapula or with the floor, had set it off. The Scarecrow had not designed his containers to be used as weapons themselves. Their contents were supposed to be the most dangerous thing about them.

The basement was going to become inhospitable very quickly. Crane wasn't going to linger and end up having a breakdown at the supermarket because he believed a candy bar had grown fangs and was attempting to murder him. He'd been the victim of his own toxin, normally through some action of the Bat's, enough times to know it was only educational when it happened to other people.

While the cloud of poison spread, affecting the mice, which began to squeak in terror, the Scarecrow beat a hasty escape. He couldn't catch, but he could scurry when he needed to. As soon as he was out of the basement, he slammed the door shut. Harley, curious, peered into the kitchen just in time to see Crane shoving a dishtowel under the door.

"Whatcha doin', Professor? Did you find Mister J?" She asked.

"Yes, child, I did. The son of a bitch set off my fear toxin. Don't go down in the basement, at least not for half an hour. Open some windows for ventilation, just in case." The Scarecrow said.

The kitchen window was still wide open, as Crane had not closed it after climbing through it. Harley set off to open the others in the house. She honestly didn't want to imagine the havoc Bud and Lou would cause if they started hallucinating. It was sufficient to say that there would be very little to salvage.

Hopefully, the poisonous cloud would be contained in the basement. Crane was reasonably sure that, as long as the Joker didn't put a fan down in the cellar to stir the air, everyone on the first and second floor would be all right. The towel stuck in the crack of the door, as recommended during a fire to keep smoke out of a room, was only an added precaution. The Scarecrow was not about to call upon FEMA's guide on chemical weapon attacks and break out the plastic sheeting. He did have shopping to do, after all.

With all the windows on the ground floor open, Harley returned. "Should we evacuate?" She asked.

"No, that's not necessary. It might be a good idea to sit outside for a while, but you'll be fine. Now, excuse me. I'd like to leave before the Joker finds anything else to throw at me." Crane said.

Hoping the mice had broken loose in their madness and were all attempting to fly up the leg of the Joker's trousers, the Scarecrow left his home. The two shopping lists were tucked in his pants pockets, which wasn't easy because the Joker's was long enough to be published in paperback. Crane took a minute to properly fasten the container of toxin to his wrist, and made sure the shirt sleeve disguised the lump.

Poison Ivy would be proud of Crane today. Asides from saving precious trees from being butchered into thin, absorbent sheets, he was also walking. It wasn't like he had much choice. He didn't own a car of his own, preferring to steal one whenever the opportunity arose. It didn't make much sense to have a car in Gotham, anyway. The traffic was so bad three hours or more each day legging it was faster.

The market, part of a nation-wide chain that could afford to slash prices so low family-owned businesses never stood a chance, was only a mile or so from Crane's house. There was a Quick Mart much closer, but they sold only three things: gasoline, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. They did claim to sell soft-serve ice cream, but when vanilla and watermelon tasted exactly the same, something was wrong.

The walk was the most pleasant 15 minutes Crane had enjoyed in a week. There was no clown waiting to ambush him, no flaming surprises in the kitchen, and no hyenas sniffing around. Asides from a woman shouting into her cell phone while she walked a dog that looked more like a mop than an animal, the Scarecrow didn't encounter any humans he wanted to tie down and experiment on.

Even though the market was making a rare profit, at least according to the last newspaper Crane had stolen, it didn't take very good care of its sparse shrubbery. The Scarecrow stepped over a yellow hedge, avoided a beer bottle someone had shattered, and entered the parking lot. He immediately took stock of possible escape vehicles. There were several pickups and SUVs, easily large enough to accommodate all he had to steal. Crane sent the auto-manufacturers a little prayer, blessing them for encouraging Americans to buy tanks as opposed to hybrids. He would be absolutely stranded in a parking lot full of Priuses or Fusions.

Crossing the parking lot was a little like running up the beaches of Normandy during the D-Day invasion. Young couples with far too many kids pushed their shopping carts with no regard to other pedestrians. People who deserved their licenses about as much as they deserved the Nobel Peace Prize backed up without so much as a glance in their rearview mirrors. Crane was nearly hit by a teenage girl, and barely restricted the urge to poison her. It would certainly teach her a lesson she needed to learn before she ended up with vehicular homicide on her record.

Intact by sheer luck alone, the Scarecrow finally entered the automatic sliding doors at the front of the store. He was greeted by a man who was officially older than God. The greeter resembled beef jerky more than he did a human being.

Crane grabbed a shopping cart and wrestled the Joker's list from his pocket. He still couldn't believe the clown had the audacity to demand the Scarecrow get him all these things. The list read like a kid's fantasy, nothing but sweets and snack food. And processed meat. Apparently, the Joker only needed two food groups to survive.

"I hope his teeth rot out, and his dentist is a Nazi." The Scarecrow said.

A woman with a shopping basket full of cat food gave Crane a strange look and waddled off. He hoped that she was still around when he finally checked out. It would really make his day.

Before he could even think about what fun it would be to sow panic throughout the store, the Scarecrow had to find everything, or at least a decent percent, on the list. The best place to start was at the beginning, so Crane set off to find diet soda. The item listed directly beneath the pop was Mentos. Something ticked in the back of his brain when he dropped the candy into the cart. The Scarecrow wasn't in the mood to puzzle out his imperfect memory right now, though. He had to figure out where, in this maze of shelves, the cereal was. He had to find six boxes of chocolate cereal marketed by a vampire.

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Author's Notes: Sideshow Bob is a character on _The Simpsons_, who is constantly plotting to murder Bart. He was once employed by Krusty the Clown.

Tolchock is a term from _A Clockwork Orange_. It means to hit or beat on. I've seen the Joker, especially in TDK fanfics, quote the book. I thought it would be nice to have Crane do it for a change.

_Quid pro quo_ is most famously used by Hannibal Lecter. It means 'this for that'.

The parking lot in this fic is based off of the one at my local Wal-Mart. I've had near-death experiences there.

The Nazi dentist is from a film called _Marathon Man_. It's got a brutal scene where a Nazi dentist tortures a man with dental tools. As if dentists and Nazis weren't bad enough on their own…

Mentos and Diet Coke will do wonderful things together.


	9. Misbegotten Spawn

I'm glad you all enjoyed Spider Joker. Man, I love the Spider Pig song.

Purple Ghost Sausage: Want to kick own ass again. It was supposed to just be 'psychopath'.

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"Bloody vampire craze."

The Scarecrow glared at a bare spot on the shelf. To the left were hundreds of colorful cereal boxes, to the right the same thing. Right in front of him, air and dust. The superstore, which had everything any human being from the President to an 18th Century French peasant could ever need, was sold out of Count Chocula cereal. Never mind the six boxes the Joker demanded. He was getting zero. If he cried about it, or threatened to harm Crane bodily, he was prepared to tell the clown to take a little trip to Arizona and kill Stephanie Meyer. It was really her fault all the little girls and boys were snapping up cereal that used to be popular mainly around Halloween.

Crane looked down at the shopping list again. He had the diet soda, Mentos, and the cereal was a no-go. By his estimation, he only had about 8,597 items more to go. He might actually finish by his birthday.

Ten minutes later, the Scarecrow found himself scratching his head and wondering how in the hell he had found himself in the international food aisle. He was standing in front of a whole display dedicated to Indian curry. If he brought home some spicy vegetable mix, the Joker would probably light something on fire, stick it down Crane's pants, and laugh while he ran around in a circle beating wildly at his crotch.

It was unlikely the Joker had gone multi-cultural anywhere on his list, so the Scarecrow departed from that aisle. Eventually, wishing all the while that the store had handed out maps at the entrance, Crane found the snack food aisles. He made enormous progress, because the Joker wanted nearly everything there. Any product that spelled 'cheese' with a 'z' instead of an 's' went into the cart. So did enough chips, nachos, cookies, pretzels, crisps, dip, and salsa _con queso_ to throw a block-wide Super Bowl party of epic magnitude.

"Pork rinds? He can't be planning to _eat _these, can he?" Crane asked, examining a plastic bag that featured a smiling pig on it.

Grimacing in distaste, the Scarecrow threw the bag of pig snacks into the cart. Even looking at the grinning porker gave him a sudden stab of pain in his arteries. Crane silently cursed pork rinds, and anyone who enjoyed them, to an early and well-deserved grave.

Crane tore the first three pages from the list and crumbled them up. He was actually making progress, real, substantial progress! That dreadful old bat and her cat food might still be wandering around by the time he got to the checkout and unleashed hell.

The next section of the list was dedicated entirely to candy. The Scarecrow knew there was more than Hershey's chocolate out there, in the same vague way people who lived near the Atlantic Ocean knew that England, Portugal and the rest of the European continent was somewhere across the blue. Upon reading the Joker's candy demands, Crane understood just how many different companies made their business rotting teeth and comforting lonely women.

"Mike and Ike? Aren't they presidents? Ike surely was. Is that clown playing with me? I wish I actually had a sweet tooth; maybe then I'd know what half of these are." The Scarecrow muttered.

The Scarecrow, just out of spite, wanted to call it quits now and begin terrorizing people. Deal or no deal, the Joker had taken advantage of him. If it wasn't for the maniac's encyclopedic knowledge of how to maim, kill, and injure, Crane might have just let him go hungry.

"Uh, buddy, that Snickers bar bad-mouth you or something?"

Crane twitched and looked around in confusion. A man, his young daughter hiding behind his leg, was giving him an odd and distrustful look.

"What?" The Scarecrow asked.

"You've been standing there and glaring at that candy for like, five minutes. You were starting to creep me out." The guy explained.

"I'm not angry at the candy, I'm angry at the bastard who sent me to buy it." Crane said. Then he realized the little girl peeking out was much too young to hear such language. "Sorry."

The man waved his hand. "Don't worry about it. She all ready told me they say it on the bus. I'm just glad you weren't having some kind of an episode. It's too bad your friend's a dick, though."

"Yes, he's the scum of humanity. I don't know how I put up with him." The Scarecrow said.

He hastily grabbed some nearby chocolate bars, a tub of sour gummy worms, and boxes of chewy fruit candy. Whether it was on the list or not didn't matter right now. Crane had to get out of the aisle and away from the guy and his kid. The last thing he needed to do was arouse suspicion now.

Once he was safely halfway across the store, Crane removed another page from the list. He doubted if he had even come close to getting all the sweets the Joker wanted, but he was not going back. It would be a totally useless gesture, anyway. He would have to hire a Sherpa and Indiana Jones if he wanted to locate every piece of candy the clown had written down.

With candy and snack food out of the way, that left baked goods. Most of Harley's list, asides from the massive amount of hamburger Bud and Lou needed, could be found at the bakery. She probably wouldn't torture him for getting blueberry instead of strawberry cheesecake, so the Scarecrow was a bit less strict with her list. By the time he found banana nut muffins, the cart was nearly full.

A single cart was not going to be enough for all the food on both lists. Crane should have foreseen this and grabbed a second cart. Now he would have to abandon his laden cart, run back to the front of the store to get another, and hope nobody stole anything while he was gone.

The Scarecrow left his cart next to the bagels. He paid no attention to the fossilized greeter, who waved pretty gamely for a man nearly immobilized by arthritis. Ignoring the indignant bark of a woman he shoved in front of, Crane grabbed another cart. He jogged, not wanting to get any weird looks or double-takes from security for running in the store.

In the three minutes it had taken Crane to retrieve a second cart, the parasites had crawled upon his filled cart like flies on a flattened mess that had once been a possum. Two brats were stealing Harley's brownies, and throwing them into their mother's cart. They had apparently never been taught any manners at all, the selfish little monsters, because they returned to raid the candy Crane had managed to collect.

In a world that was paranoid about molesters and kidnappers, Crane violated a major taboo. He caught the arm of one young thief, just as the kid was about to snatch a box of sour gummies. Physically touching a child that wasn't yours was a sure way to earn a blast of pepper spray to the face, or a high-heeled shoe to the groin.

"Let it go, or the arm comes off." The Scarecrow hissed.

The boy, hardly half as tall as Crane, let out a shriek reminiscent of a velociraptor. His younger brother began to scream as well. With all the rage and force of a mother bear defending her cubs, the boys' mom stormed onto the scene.

"Franklin! Let him go, you sicko!" The woman demanded.

"Your untrained offspring was stealing from me! Woman, shut up and take him." The Scarecrow replied. He plucked the box of sweets from the boy's hand, tossed it back to the cart, and shoved him in his mother's direction.

"I should report you." The mother hissed.

"For what? Keeping your misbegotten spawn from robbing me blind? He's a criminal in the making. In ten years, you'll be visiting him in prison." Crane said.

"Franklin is a good boy."

"Franklin is going to be sharing a cell with a biker ironically named Tiny, and he is going to learn a great deal about Greek culture and home-made tattoos." The Scarecrow replied.

With her lower lip trembling, the mother gathered her two sons under her arms and shepherded them away. Crane glared at them, and fully hoped his prediction about Franklin's future came to fruition. The last thing he heard before the family disappeared into a new aisle was, "Mom, what's misbegotten spawn?"

The Scarecrow found it very difficult to manage two carts at once, especially when one was chocked full of eclectic groceries. His great need to make a quick escape on the off chance that woman really did bother to locate a security guard or store employee was hampered. Cursing the newer cart's gimpy front wheel, Crane ended up shoving the full cart with one hand and dragging its disabled counterpart behind him.

It was time to deviate from the list, and Jonathan Crane was prepared to damn the consequences. He just wasn't good around normal people. First he had stared down a Snickers bar, and then he had threatened to dismember a ten-year-old over some chewy fruit. If he didn't do some triage work now, he would almost certainly end up being cornered by an overweight rent-a-cop.

"Ice cream and a first aid kit, then." The Scarecrow decided. He yanked the two uncooperative carts to the frozen food section. Since he was not going to stand in line at the meat counter and order twenty different kinds of sandwich meat, Crane decided some frozen corndogs and popcorn shrimp would have to be suitable substitutes. With no regard to New York Super Fudge Chunk or any of the other flavors the Joker had requested, the Scarecrow randomly grabbed pints of Ben and Jerry's and threw them into the second cart.

By the time Crane had wrestled his way over to the pharmacy, he was ready to pull an Annie Wilkes and just axe the useless, squeaking wheel straight off the lame cart. He had also offended half of the shoppers with his cursing, which had started as quiet muttering under his breath and finished just short of shouting.

"Aspirin, fine, dandy, great. Red Cross approved first aid kit. Gorgeous. Water-proof bandages. I'm surely going to need those, the way my day is going. Head-On. For Christ's sake, what nonsense." Crane said. The offending, and probably useless, headache medicine went flying.

Satisfied that he had enough medical supplies to take care of anything short of the amputation of a leg or an arm, Crane began the long and painful process of getting from to the checkouts. He was offered assistance once from a man in an ascot who was gayer than Elton John, but frightened the poor fellow off with a look of red hatred.

Crane scanned the checkout counters, looking for the cashier he'd most like to gas. His first inclination was to head straight for the most crowded counter, since it offered the most victims. Upon catching sight of the girl who manned it, a frumpy thing who filled out her uniform in all the wrong places, he felt a twinge of pity. That poor child probably had a life similar to his own. It wouldn't be fair to add hallucinations and trauma to her miserable existence.

While the girl reminded the Scarecrow of the long series of beatings, humiliation, and pain that had been his adolescent years, a male cashier a few aisles away gave Crane actual flashbacks of the sadistic children who had been his tormentors. The teen was tall, but actually had something in the way of muscles. He had the same face, down to the eyebrows that weren't quite symmetrical, as one of the bullies who got his jollies by smashing Crane's hand in locker doors. Judging by how he was chatting up his customers, as long as those customers happened to be teenage girls with oversized breasts and short skirts, he had the same personality, too.

"Perfect." The Scarecrow said. He knew that the cashier wasn't the same person who had haunted Crane's footsteps during high school; for starters, that original bully was dead, courtesy of a particularly nasty batch of toxin. It was nothing more than an unlucky shuffling of genes that gave them similar appearances. Right now, that didn't much matter. Crane's rotten day was about to become very contagious.

The two carts, even the crippled one, no longer seemed like such hindrances. Wearing a smile he hoped was natural but probably suggested he was concealing a meat cleaver, Crane approached the checkout lane.

Crane was the third person in line. It was unlikely that anyone would come behind him, because of the sheer amount of crap he had to check out. That was a little disappointing. He wasn't going for research data, just a body count. The more people he poisoned, the more chaos he spread, the longer he'd have to find a suitable vehicle and hotwire it.

"Thanks for shopping at… Wow, you have a lot of crap." The clerk said.

"Bluntly put. But yes, I'm throwing a party." The Scarecrow said.

"Man, are you inviting the whole state or something?"

"I'm going to have clowns and everything." Crane said.

"All right. Whatever you're into, man."

The cashier rang up the first aid supplies, the ice cream, and half of Harley's baked goods without any problems. By the time he was scanning the brownies and cheesecake, Crane noticed the kid was taking peeks at him between the items. The more items he bagged, the more the clerk dared to stare.

"Have I sprouted a second head?" The Scarecrow inquired.

"Huh?"

"My head. Do I have two of them now? Is that why you've been scanning the same box of cookies for the past three minutes?" Crane asked. This time, he made no pretense of being nice about it.

"I know you from somewhere." The clerk replied. He finally dropped the cookies, which had been rung up sixteen times.

"I have never seen you before in my life. My memory is quite good, doubtlessly better than yours. If it was more than a mere passing on the street, I would have a recollection." The Scarecrow said.

"Your voice, too. I recognize it. Except, you weren't talking like some elitist. You were on the news, and you were yelling." The cashier replied.

Crane snorted. "And what was I yelling, if your undeveloped mind is so astute?"

"I am the Master of Fear and the Lord of Despair! Worship me fools, worship me!"

"Damn it. Damn it! Damn it!" That little clip had been from his last incarceration at Arkham. He hadn't exactly gone back to his cell quietly.

"Yeah, that _was_ you on the news last month, and you're the Scarecrow. Man, I can't believe it. The Scarecrow comes to my checkout counter, and gets in a fight with me. This is going to make one ass-kicking story. I'm going to be on TV." The clerk said.

The Scarecrow couldn't wrap his lobes around the young cashier's gall. People shouldn't get excited over meeting Gotham's worst villains, like they were some sort of celebrity or visiting world dignitary. No, the citizens were supposed to grow pale, scream, call the police, faint, or lose control of their bladders! What was the world coming to when the youth wouldn't even respect the Master of Fear?

"You're going to have a hard time getting on television if you're a stone dead corpse. Or too insane to form a noun and verb together." Crane said.

"You don't kill people." The kid countered.

"I don't _usually _kill people. Occasionally, it happens. I haven't killed anyone recently, so perhaps it's time I remedy that. After all, I do have a reputation that obviously needs repairing, if monkeys like you think it's safe to sass me." The Scarecrow said.

The nightly news, as was usually the way they operated, left out a few key facts. In this case, the blonde model they improperly labeled an anchor had failed to report the numerous test subjects who had expired under Crane's care. Albeit, it had been an unfortunate combination of severe allergic reactions to the toxin, and a heart attack or two along the way, but dead was dead.

"I really don't want to die. Look, man, I haven't even graduated high school. I didn't tell my mom I loved her this morning. I want to go to college, or join the Coast Guard, or help sick people in Africa! I'm still a virgin! Please, Scarecrow, man, don't kill me!" The kid begged.

This was getting embarrassing. It was also earning unwanted attention; the cashier two aisles over, and her customers, were all watching with growing curiosity. The useless, puling clerk was now grabbing at handfuls of Crane's shirt, and looked on the verge of tears. It was a nice change from the undeserved arrogance, but it was also causing wrinkles.

"Finish bagging. I'm not going to kill you, in all likelihood. The worst you're going to get is a two day break from school. And get your hands off me." Crane said.

"Okay."

"Don't you dare start crying! Show a little dignity, for God's sake." The Scarecrow said.

"Sorry, Scarecrow." The kid said.

"And stop calling me Scarecrow. Dr. Crane, if you feel the need to call me anything at all." Crane said.

"Sure thing, Dr. Scarecrow. Shit fire. I mean Dr. Crane."

"Forget it. Just help me get all this into a cart. Stomp on it if you need to. It's only for the Joker." The Scarecrow said.

Upon hearing the Clown Prince's name, the kid seized up. "This is all for the _Joker_? Jesus, if I did a bad job bagging, he'll come back here and kill me! My name's on the receipt, he'll know what aisle, oh man, I'm gonna die!"

Crane forgot all about feeling bad for the teen's lack of dignity. The Scarecrow was nothing, but the mere mention of the Joker was enough to cause hysterics? Son of a bitch!

By now, thanks to the wailing fit the boy was having over his impending death, everyone was staring. Somebody had alerted the store's manager, and the overweight, bald underachiever was threading through the curious customers. A security guard whose normal day consisted of stopping kids from stealing candy bars or DVDs was also running toward the checkouts.

The Scarecrow shook his left sleeve, and the mask fell into his waiting hand. A few of the wiser sheep recognized the burlap sack, shrieked, and made a break for the doors. Most of the customers stayed put, watching with dull eyes. They had just come to do their weekly errands, and had not been looking for any trouble.

Crane donned the mask, and surveyed the crowd. By now, anyone with a brain knew who he was. Fear was the only thing that kept them from stampeding, or from attempting to play the hero. The cashier, Crane noted, had crouched down below his register and had thrown his arms over his head, as though he was performing an old duck-and-cover drill.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I found the service lacking, the overall organization poor, and all of you dreadfully boring. From me to you, a little excitement. Please, be scared."

The cashier was the first one affected. In abject terror, he leapt up, whacked his head off his cash register, and fell down unconscious. He would end up getting a week off from school and about 700 get-well-soon sympathy cards. A few customers who had been drawn forward by their nosiness regretted their interest. Screams soon filled the air. Carts were overturned, groceries rolled across the floor, glass broke, soda bottles exploded, and through it all, Jonathan Crane laughed.

"Not such a bad day, really. Not so bad at all."

There was just the little matter of stealing a car, and delivering the groceries. There was no way that could go poorly. Of course not.

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Author's Notes: My little sister writes nothing but _Twilight_ fanfiction. When she read the line about the Joker killing Stephanie Meyer she yelled "He'd better not!"

Salsa _con queso_ is salsa with cheese.

Mike and Ike are fruit-flavored candies. Ike is Dwight Eisenhower.

Annie Wilkes is the psychotic nurse from _Misery_. In the movie, she's got a hammer, in the book it's an axe.

Head-On: Apply directly to the forehead. Head-On: Apply directly to the forehead.

"I am the Master of Fear and the Lord of Despair! Worship me fools, worship me!" is a line directly from Batman: The Animated Series.


	10. Nachos

I have over 50 reviews! I'm immersed in a ball of fuzzy joy!

Elizabeth Tudor and Lauralot: Exactly. Vampires do not get the respect they deserve, and a huge amount of blame rests with Meyer.

SendMoreParamedics: I'm glad I'm providing a service and feeding your brain useless pop culture references.

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The ideal vehicle, a white, over-sized, made-in-America pickup truck, turned out too good to be true. Crane put his hand on the driver's side door, only to have at least 90 pounds of snarling German Shepherd throw itself against the window. Far better than any burglar alarm, the dog would tear any would-be car thief to shreds. The Scarecrow shouted obscenities at the dog, which only made the mutt angrier. It gnashed it fangs and bit at the window. When Crane realized the dog was actually putting cracks in the glass, he decided to stop antagonizing it and get the hell out of there.

Not far from the pick-up and its possessive passenger, Crane spotted an SUV with more than enough space for an entire football team, plus coach and trainer. He actually got as far as opening the door this time. As soon as he did, a feminine voice shouted from the back.

"What the hell are you doing? This isn't your car! Jesus Christ, what do you have on your head?"

Crane looked back and noticed a blonde girl, an ear-bud dangling from one ear. Even at this distance, he could hear the rap music she had been listening to.

"I'm the Scarecrow."

"I don't care if you're the Real Slim Shady! Get out of here!" The girl demanded.

The Scarecrow retreated without another word. He was not going to wrestle with a teenage wildcat. Especially not one with such a bad attitude. He had been clawed by women with acrylic nails before, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

Wasn't there one car in this entire parking lot that didn't have an abandoned dog or kid in it? Crane lugged his cart, piled high with a pyramid of groceries, over to another SUV. This one was mercifully empty. Unfortunately, it was also locked.

There were two options: break the window and open the door, or forget about it and find a car owned by someone more negligent or naive. The parking lot was expansive, but Crane had suffered enough bad luck. He turned his head to avoid any shattering glass, forgetting his mask would also offer at least marginal protection, and elbowed the window.

The only thing that broke was the Scarecrow's elbow. He cursed, kicked the car door, and set off the alarm. The car began to emit terrible peeping sounds. Still swearing, Crane kicked the evil vehicle again. Now it felt like his toes were broken, as well.

Limping now, and cradling his right arm, the Scarecrow gave up on the SUV. He hobbled a few cars down, contemptuously let his cart strike a tiny Volkswagen, and arrived at a purple pickup. He had never, as far as he could recall, ever seen a purple pickup. The truck made no attempt at violet, or indigo. It was proudly, staunchly, flag-wavingly purple.

"Fascinating driver, I'm sure. Either a very masculine woman, or queerer than a three dollar bill." Crane said.

Whoever the driver was, they weren't smart enough to lock their doors or to own a beast of an attack dog. Crane, with only a little help from his dominant right hand, haphazardly threw the groceries into the back of the truck. Since he was still able to at least move his elbow, he probably hadn't broken it, which was a relief. He knew how to pop in a dislocated shoulder, knew how to pass out as soon as the shoulder was back in place, and knew how to steal prescription medication to deal with the lingering pain. When it came to how to fix a broken elbow, though, the Scarecrow came up mostly blank.

Once the cart was empty, Crane set it free. He was not going to walk an extra ten feet to the cart corral. He _wanted _the runaway cart to scratch up the side of someone's car.

The driver, asides from having questionable color judgment, was also very clean. There were no cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, bloodstains, or little baggies filled with various pills. During his jaunts as a car-thief, Crane had encountered all manner of nasty things in the stolen vehicles.

Half of the Gotham populace probably knew how to hotwire a car. For all Crane knew, they taught it in schools now. He desperately wished he had a screwdriver; that would have made the process so much easier. Prying off the ignition cover with nothing but his bare hands and nearly nonexistent fingernails was going to be a pain.

Six minutes later, the ignition wires were clumsily mated, the engine was rumbling, and the Scarecrow was outside, screaming and kicking nearby vehicles. While twisting the wires together, he had received his third nasty shock of the day. His fingers tingled and he didn't trust his stupid hands to drive a car until they recovered. Abusing the cars that had the great misfortune of being parked near him wasn't helping his hands feel any less pins-and-needles and neither was the shouting and swearing. On any normal night, a maniac shrieking out in the parking lot like an urban banshee would have gotten quite a bit of attention. Tonight, however, thanks to the fear toxin, screams were the norm.

Speaking of screaming, some of the people, both the poisoned and the lucky, had managed to find their way outside. While Crane broke the tail light on a moderately-priced sedan, a group of panicked shoppers ran by. The Scarecrow watched them go, and then did a double-take. By God, the greeter, probably 95 years old and as bald as the day he was born, was leading the pack! He should have been gently rocking on the porch of a Floridian retirement home, and here he was stampeding through a Gotham parking lot.

"Wiley old bastard." Crane said, though not without some admiration. He doubted if he'd ever live to see retirement age, let alone nearly a century of life. He certainly wouldn't live to see next week, not in one whole piece at least, if he didn't get a move on with those groceries. The ice cream was melting while he ruminated on speedy geezers.

The Scarecrow returned to his hijacked pickup truck. He climbed into the seat, slammed the door, and buckled his seat belt. He quickly adjusted the seat, since he found his knees crushed against the steering wheel by the seat's current position. Crane took a peek at the rear-view mirror, not wanting his first act in the stolen truck to be mowing down three generations of a family. The view was clear, except for a man obviously under the effects of the fear toxin. He was attempting to fight off the air, and his expression suggested he was being pursued by something covered in horns and spikes. The Scarecrow backed up slowly, making sure he didn't whack the hallucinating man. He did like the truck, and didn't want it smeared with the blood of the temporarily insane.

The mask was a bit of a hindrance when driving, and made merging into busy traffic a daredevil act. Crane didn't want to remove it, but he needed to regain his peripheral vision. With obvious reluctance, the Scarecrow placed his mask on the passenger's seat. Before he was totally aware of what he was doing, Crane reached over to grab the passenger's seat belt. Then he realized that he was riding with a frightful scrap of burlap, not a human who needed the belt's protection. The Scarecrow didn't know whether to be amused or mortified.

Walking over to the store had taken about 15 minutes. As long as the police hadn't set up any barricades, or no frightened shoppers had been squashed on the road, Crane surmised he could be back home in ten minutes, depending on traffic. He'd have to figure out where to dispose of the stolen car later. The river was always a good option; it was so polluted, nothing living except for maybe Killer Croc would care if a new automobile sunk to the bottom.

The endless stream of cars finally parted long enough for Crane to gun the engine and get the pickup caught in the flow. He stayed with the traffic for two minutes, before making a poorly timed left-hand turn. A van, doubtlessly full of innocent children and an over-worked soccer mom, nearly knocked the bumper off his pickup. A flurry of horns, swear words beginning with 'f' or 'mother', and rude gestures followed the Scarecrow.

Crane had hardly turned onto the narrower street when three police cruisers, lights blazing and sirens blaring, blew past him. He was now infinitely thankful he had removed the mask when he did. With his luck, one of the cops would have been observant despite the speed they were traveling at, and lighted upon the fact the man coming toward them happened to be wearing the Scarecrow's disguise. After all, not all of Gotham's finest could be trigger-happy flunkies. One or two of them had to have a brain, or at least decent vision.

The truck rolled past the Quick Mart, home of ten ice cream flavors that all tasted the same: toxic and inedible. To Crane's surprise, there was quite a crowd gathered around, everyone holding cones or cups of ice cream. It was amazing that no one was on the ground, writhing or vomiting up his intestines.

It was time for a little more fun, Crane decided. He rolled down the window, slowed the truck down to an inchworm's crawl, and yelled, "Don't eat that! You'll get E-coli and spend the next four days on the toilet! Trust me, I know."

Another panicked stampede. Absolutely beautiful. Crane laughed madly, nearly losing control of the pickup. He watched one man, likely a professional wrestler or hit man judging by the ripped shirt and upper arm tattoos, throw his ice cream cone at the window of the convenience store. Two kids had their snacks yanked from their hands by their desperate mother, who threw the Styrofoam dishes on the ground and urged her children back to the family car.

A few minutes later, the Scarecrow pulled into the driveway of his house. He noticed that all the windows were still wide open. There wasn't any smoke he could see, and no unfortunate soul was hanging like a piñata from the stunted maple in the front yard, so Crane surmised the Joker had behaved himself or at least limited the destruction. That was almost a miraculous occurrence.

Bud and Lou heard the rumble of the pickup truck's engine long before Harley or the Joker did. The two hyenas crowded the front door, yipping and wagging their tails. The Joker looked on with undisguised disdain.

"They love Spooky more than they love me." He complained.

"You're probably right, Mister J. Maybe it's 'cause of that time you threw me out and forgot to feed them for five days and they were all skinny by the time I got back." Harley said.

"I tried to feed them. They growled at me and almost ate me." The clown replied.

"That's 'cause they were hungry, Puddin'. Really hungry. You can't even go a day without food before you turn into a big baby." Harley said.

"I am not a big baby!"

"Boo-hoo! I'm Mister J, and if I don't get some food right now, I'm gonna shrivel up and die! Harley, feed me! Lou, feed me! Professor Crane, feed me!"

"Harley…"

Harley sighed. "And here I thought you had a sense of humor."

Before the Joker and Harley could get into a spat that almost certainly would end with her locked outside and miserable, Crane opened the front door. Bud and Lou were instantly on him, jumping up and down, pawing at him, and trying to lick him. With effort, the Scarecrow held the eager mutts off long enough to slip inside.

"It took you long enough, Johnny." The Joker said. "Did you stop at the comic book store on the way home?"

"No, I planted chaos in two different locations, frightened young children, and re-established my reputation. It was all quite productive. I'm sure I'll make the headlines tomorrow. If the television wasn't as bullet-riddled as Kabul, we could all enjoy my exploits on the news." Crane said smugly.

The Scarecrow walked past the Joker, the hyenas bouncing along at his heels. He headed into the living room and flopped down on the couch.

"Hey, Spooky, you've still got to carry the food inside. I'm not in the mood for a picnic." The Joker said.

"My debt is repaid. You never said anything about actually putting the groceries away. If you don't want the New York Fudge Party, or whatever the hell it is, to melt, I suggest you bring in the bags. Oh yes, they're all plastic bags, so make sure they get recycled. You wouldn't want Red to get upset." The Scarecrow replied.

The Joker's hands snapped into fists. The nerve of the spineless sack of straw! If he wasn't so weak from hunger and lack of sugar and caffeine, he'd do something awful! What exactly that was, he'd need a minute or two to puzzle out. The cream-filled-cake deficiency he was currently suffering was obviously starting to slow his brain and his creative processes.

"You're going to be sorry, Mop Man." The Clown Prince warned.

"Same old story, same old song and dance. Fetch your ice cream and leave me in peace." Crane said. He dismissed the Joker with a wave of his hand.

Harley was all ready outside, in the bed of the pickup. The Joker, his arms crossed like those of a petulant child who isn't getting his way, glared at the truck. Though he was loath to admit it, he liked the stolen truck. Its peculiar shade of purple was nearly perfect for a clown-themed vehicle of mass destruction. All it needed was a few bright green stripes, a painted grin on its grill, and a grenade launcher or other piece of pilfered Army equipment. With a little work, the pickup could be twice as mean as Christine.

"Where's my Ben and Jerry's, Harley-girl? I need some caramel swirls and cookie pieces _right now_." The Joker whined.

"Mister J, there's a gazillion bags here. You gotta be patient." Harley replied.

The Joker was patient, for about three seconds. Maybe for a fruit fly, which only had 24 hours to live, mate, and come to peace with the universe before it died, three seconds was a long time. For a human being, it wasn't. Harley quickly got tired of her precious Mister J and his impatient Thumper foot.

"Puddin', I love you and all that jazz, but if you don't sit still, I'm gonna hit you with this cream pie. That'd be a real shame, 'cause this is a tasty-lookin' pie." The harlequin said.

"Fine, threaten to ruin a perfectly nice pie. Shove over, Blondie-Bear. I need my daily allowance of frozen moo juice, and you're too slow." The Joker said. He climbed into the truck, knocking out a bag full of nachos and chips as he did.

Harley saw the nachos spill from the bag. She clapped her hands excitedly. "Yeah, I got nachos! I wonder if there's any salsa. I think I put that on my list."

"And you asked Santa for an okapi last Christmas, but he didn't bring it. You can't expect to get everything you want. Only I'm that privileged." The Joker said.

Harley might have had a few sharp-tongued retorts about how often the Joker got the exact opposite of what he wanted, but she was too enamored with her tortilla chips. She pulled the bag open, forgoing the salsa for now, and stuffed both her own face and the drooling muzzles of her Babies. One benefit of having a human matriarch, instead of the natural hyena, was a very interesting diet.

"Who loves nachos? We do! Come on, Bud and Lou, spell it out! N-A-C-H-O-S!" Harley cheered, jumping around and waving invisible pom-poms.

While Harley pranced around like a show pony, the Joker was beginning to get irate. He had torn though quite a few bags, and was beginning to notice something. Johnny had screwed it up!

The Joker might have been able to forgive a missed item here or there. After all, the Scarecrow didn't have any brains; anybody who watched _The Wizard of Oz_ knew that. What the clown found, though, was far beyond his limited capacity to pardon. It seemed Spooky had neglected half the list. To add to the criminality of it, he had the nerve to get all sorts of disgusting sugar-free food. Who in their right, or wrong, mind wanted chocolate flavored with some weird, ten-syllable long artificial sweetener? Not the Joker, that was for certain!

There was only one chance for redemption: the ice cream. Maybe, if Mop Man got all six flavors, and they weren't melted down into drippy goo, the Joker would show the Scarecrow some mercy. If there was only five kinds, or he had gotten that fruity low fat sorbet, the Joker was going to start removing body parts there were no replacements for.

Underneath a bag crammed to bursting with various kinds of muffins, the Joker found his ice cream. The first pint he pulled out was Chocolate Therapy. Harley would be overjoyed, and would doubtlessly fall asleep with ice cream all over her lips, chin, nose, and clothes. The next tub was that fruity low fat sorbet the Joker hated so badly. Johnny's fate was sealed.

Of the six flavors the Joker had demanded, he received only three. That was a terrible return, a flunking grade, a letdown, an offense before God and man alike. To make matters worse, the three successes weren't even the Joker's favorite of the bunch. There was no New York Super Fudge Chunk, or even a spoonful of Chunky Monkey to be had.

"That straw-brained, useless, soon-to-be-dead nerd!" The Clown Prince shouted.

"Mister J, maybe you should just enjoy the food you have. Look, he got cookies with sprinkles. I know you want some. Oh, this cookie has all green sprinkles. It's practically got your name on it!" Harley said.

The Joker pretended Harley wasn't there. He punted the berry sorbet like a football. The pint went spinning through the air and crash landed on the roof with a thud.

Crane, stretched out on the sofa, was startled out of his mildly relaxed state by an odd noise. It sounded like something had just crashed into the roof. What was it: an errant baseball, a meteor, a fallen radioactive satellite?

"I bet the sky is falling. Yes, that must be it. I finally find a little bit of joy, so the world's got to end." The Scarecrow said. He shrugged his shoulders in total apathy. If the fiery, mountain-leveling apocalypse his nutter of a grandmother had always loved preaching about was finally going to happen, there was no use getting worked up over it.

There was, however, quite a lot to get worked up over when the Joker kicked the front door open. Crane sat bolt upright, all thoughts about quietly enduring Armageddon gone. He didn't mind getting smote down by a lunatic in the sky who thought it was great fun to have three religions kill in his name, but the Scarecrow was not ready to be murdered on the sofa.

"Hey, Johnny, guess what?" The Clown Prince said.

"Uh."

"Wrong. I'm going to teach you a little lesson about Mentos and Diet Coke. And eyeballs."

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Author's Notes: The Real Slim Shady is another name for the rapper Eminem.

Kabul is the capital city of Afghanistan. As an American, I'm pretty embarrassed over how many people don't know this.

Christine is the killer car from the novel written by whom else but Stephen King.

Thumper was a rabbit from _Bambi_ whose back leg was prone to thump when he got excited.

Blondie-Bear was Harmony's nickname for Spike on _Buffy the Vampire Slayer _and _Angel_.

An okapi is a jungle dwelling animal with the striped hindquarters of a zebra, a dark brown body, and a long neck and tongue like a giraffe. It's awesome.


	11. Ass Cast

Mega-sorry this took so long! It's final exam time, and I've an obscene amount to do.

Thanks, thanks, thanks for reviewing!

Elizabeth Tudor: Don't worry about being the grammar Nazi. I just can never remember what to do with commas and quotations. I'm gonna drive editors loco.

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"For a nerd, you don't seem all that interested in this little experiment. Come on, Spooky, you'll be helping the scientific community."

"Get away from me! Back, I say, back!" Crane was off the couch, scurrying behind it, trying to keep the sofa between him and the Joker.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"How many people have that exact sentence as their famous last words? Dozens, hundreds, more maybe? I know three, personally."

The Joker found it quite surprising that the Scarecrow actually knew at least three people, asides from other villains and the heroes out to stop them. Certainly, none of the rogues' last words would be 'what's the worst that could happen?', because they'd know the answer to the question. Especially the Riddler, who made questions his business and way of life.

"Really? Who were they? Imaginary friends don't count, and neither do split personalities." The Joker asked.

Crane stomped his foot in frustration. "I do _not_ have imaginary friends or multiple personality disorder! Even if I did, they wouldn't be stupid enough to ask that question. It's a moot point, any way, since my mind is sound."

The Clown Prince laughed. "Why are you staying at Arkham, then? No room at the Holiday Inn?"

"A lack of empathy and what is considered moral ethics is not synonymous with madness. You're insane, Tetch is insane, Dent is at least half insane, but I am misunderstood." The Scarecrow said.

"Blah, blah, nobody loves me, my head is enormous, woe is the Scarecrow. Tell it to your shrinks. If you're alive to see them."

"Don't be stupid. You can't kill someone with Diet Coke and Mentos." Crane said.

"Yes you can! I saw it on the Internet." The Joker rebuked.

The Scarecrow scoffed. "Saw it on the Internet? Then it must be true. Just like the video of Bigfoot riding a bicycle and the face of Jesus Christ appearing in a cheese sandwich."

The Joker held out the bottle of soda. "Prove me wrong, Spooky. Here, drink this."

The idea of consuming anything the Joker offered, be it Diet Coke or a freshly filleted grinning but un-copyrightable fish, was about as smart as beating a beehive with a stick while you were naked and slathered in honey. It would also likely end with about the same amount of pain, swelling, and hospital bills. Of course, politely refusing the Joker would probably result in an extended stay in traction, anyway. He wasn't the sort of man you could get away from unscathed.

"Fine. This is nothing more than a slightly updated version of the Mikey myth, you know." Crane said.

"What's the Mikey myth? Is that the myth about the man who is in the Jacuzzi and sticks his-"

"For the love of Nietzsche, no! It's the pop rocks and cola myth. Mikey was the kid who supposedly ate them together and died of a ruptured stomach. It's rubbish, of course. Just like the Mentos and Diet Coke legend." The Scarecrow replied.

"I think it really happened."

"And I _know_ it's nothing more than the result of bored college students and a keg too many. Let's get this over and done with, so I can end this miserable day." Crane said.

The Joker handed over the two-liter bottle. With obvious reluctance, as though he was being given something that was prone to bite its owner, the Scarecrow accepted. There was no evidence of the clown tampering with the cap, and it appeared as though the bottle had never been opened.

"You didn't do anything with this? I'm not going to take a sip, and fall over, foaming at the mouth, am I?" The Scarecrow asked.

The Clown Prince's only reply was a smile. That was certainly helpful! Muttering about idiotic urban legends and the fools naïve enough to believe them, Crane unscrewed the little plastic cap from the soda bottle. Slapping all his neatness in the face, the Scarecrow flicked the lid and it rolled across the carpet.

"Stop looking so eager. Absolutely nothing is going to happen to me." Crane said. With that, he put the bottle to his lips and drank. His tongue didn't fall off immediately afterword, nor did the world turn funny colors and begin to resemble a Beatle's music video. He supposed the Diet Coke's secret recipe hadn't been spiked with cyanide.

The Joker passed Crane the Mentos. Without bothering to reaffirm his view that his guts were not going to blow up like Chernobyl, the Scarecrow tore open the paper and foil wrapped tube. He ate two of the candies whole, and chewed on a third one.

Five, ten, twenty seconds passed. Crane showed no signs of exploding, or even the slightest discomfort at all. In fact, he looked haughty; the Joker couldn't stand that little sneer. The nerdy bundle of straw had been right, damn it. So much for catastrophic organ failure and his faith in Internet hits.

"Satisfied, or would you like me to ingest some pop rocks, too?" The Scarecrow asked. "That might do a little more nothing."

Life wasn't fair! First, the Scarecrow had worked out all the frustration and murderous anger the Joker had worked so hard to instill by causing a little mass panic. Then the rat had the nerve to return with low fat sorbet and no New York Super Fudge Chunk. If being forced to go without his favorite ice cream wasn't cruel and evil enough, the Joker's revenge plan had fallen as flat as the chest of a ten-year-old girl. And now his long-standing faith in the almighty knowledge of the Internet had been shaken, too.

If Harley hadn't been too busy crooning over the way her cuddly darlings could lick a jar of salsa clean in under ten seconds, she might have been able to warn Crane of the imminent atomic explosion and advise him to just make a break for the truck. As it was, she had her arms around Bud's neck, crushing him in a hug, while she kissed Lou on the top of the head. "Yes, my Babies were so hungry. Uncle Jonathan knows how to take care of them. You think Professor Crane will mind bein' called Uncle Jonathan?"

Uncle Jonathan wasn't in the mood to play Mythbuster with the Joker any more. He wanted to pour the rest of the Diet Coke down the sink, dig a deep pit to bury the uneaten Mentos in, and then he wanted to go to sleep. Scaring hordes of shoppers and hijacking pickup trucks was more stressful than a day at the office, or a day spent brewing vaporous horror down in the basement. Crane's energy levels were depleted, as were his reserves of patience.

While the Scarecrow was ready to curl in a ball and snore until next weekend, the Joker was as turbo-charged as the Mach 5. He needed to work out some of his frustration. The doctors at Arkham encouraged him to strike soft, defenseless inanimate objects like pillows, or teddy bears if he was feeling particularly venomous; according to them Harley did not count, even though she was soft, at least in certain places. Since the men in white coats weren't waiting nearby to drag him back to his cell, the Joker decided to ignore the shrinks' helpful advice and just beat Crane until he was nothing more than a bale of blood and scattered straw.

"No, Johnny, I don't want you to ingest pop rocks. Do you know what I want you to do?"

Crane had several guesses, each one nastier than the last. "Cuddle up with you and read Dr. Seuss?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of bleed and scream."

"Ah, yes, I think I'm going to have to pass on that offer."

Having said his snarky peace, the Scarecrow used the only two weapons on hand. He chucked the Mentos at the Joker, and then the soda bottle. The candy didn't do much damage, as it was mostly composed of sugar and artificial flavoring and the entire package only weighed a few ounces. Nearly two liters of soda wasn't anywhere as good of a weapon as a fighter jet, or a gun, or even brass knuckles, but it did make one impressive mess.

The Joker had been assaulted by men dressed as bats, the generally useless sidekicks of men who dressed like bats, police officers, various thugs who didn't know what they were getting into, Harley once or twice, and the occasional victim who didn't want to die quietly. In all those encounters, he'd stared down various weapons: Bat-themed gadgets, fists, guns, flashlights, knives, a chainsaw, guard dogs, and the occasional broken beer bottle. He'd never been attacked by Diet Coke before.

The soda soaked the Joker, turning every article of clothing that was purple an ugly shade of eggplant. The bottle then fizzed across the floor, staining the hideously dull beige carpeting an equally hideous shade of brown. Soda ran down the Joker's pants, ruining his quilt-work socks and pooling in his shoes.

While the clown swiped wet, dripping hair from his eyes, Crane took the opportunity to run for it. If the Joker caught him, there really wasn't much of a chance he'd survive. Using his long legs to his advantage, the Scarecrow made it out the door and halfway to his stolen truck.

Bud was sitting in the middle of Crane's path, completely oblivious because he had his snout buried in a bag of nachos. Before the Scarecrow could think to zigzag around the furry blockade or jump over him, he was sprawled in the driveway, all the breath knocked out of him. The hyena had been rolled completely over. Shocked and driven by animal instinct, the mutt's first action upon recovering was to get out of there before something else large and clumsy hit him.

"Wait, Bud! Don't run across the street!" Harley shrieked. Even from his flat, sprawled out position, the Scarecrow felt his stomach drop lower. If that stupid hyena was knocked out of its fur like Churchill the cat, Crane didn't know if Harley would ever recover. If she was bad when she was perky and glowing, she would probably be unbearable if she became inconsolably weepy and left sodden used tissues all over the place.

Lou forgot all about munching when he saw his adopted mother run after Bud, shouting at him. The hyena interpreted all this action as a game, and decided the proper thing to do was join in. He loped towards Harley, his tongue lulling.

The Scarecrow knew he had to assist, but he wasn't sure how. He'd seen documentaries on hyenas, and knew they were capable of chasing down wildebeest. Though he had never gotten the opportunity to try it, Crane was willing to bet money that he would never catch a wildebeest, or any other animal on the African plains, unless it was all ready dead. Hyenas were probably twice as fast as humans, and even Harley, for all her nimbleness, would never reach the beast before it got in the path of a car.

Harley reached the same conclusion Crane did. Since her feet would never reach the runaway hyena in time, she'd have to use something that would: her voice. She cupped her hands around her mouth to act as a megaphone and shouted.

"Babies!"

Bud came to a screeching halt, his claws tearing furrows into the lawn. He pivoted with amazing dexterity, tearing up the yard even more. Harley's voice was absolute law to her two pets/adopted offspring. When she yelled for them, there was no force exerted by anything anywhere in the universe, including the pull of a black hole, that was going to keep them from her.

"You're a genius Harley." The Scarecrow said.

A foot stomped down in the center of Crane's back, pinning him to the ground like a chemically preserved frog to a dissection board. The Scarecrow grunted and tried to shove the shoe off him. In retaliation, the Joker brought his foot down with enough force to bruise.

"Get your damned foot off me. Let me up." The Scarecrow demanded.

"Shut up, Spooky. You ruined my suit."

"I have a washing machine. Not like you'd know; you never did your own laundry, you lout." Crane said.

The foot was momentarily lifted, only to be planted in the Scarecrow's side. Crane's next complaint came out as a wheeze. If the Joker had put as much energy into punting the sorbet as kicking the Scarecrow, the little container would have been recovered across the county line.

"Don't patronize me, Johnny. Believe me, that isn't something you want to do right now." The Clown Prince hissed.

Crane didn't respond; he was too busy drawing into a ball and hugging his tortured ribs. Why in the hell had the Joker bothered to turn to crime? With a kick like that, he belonged in the NFL, and not on one of those flunky teams like the Dolphins, either.

"Even if you clean my suit without getting those little lint balls over it, you still deserve to have the straw beat out you. _I gave you a list_! I warned you, right there in white and red, what I would do if you came home without my ice cream. And, despite my best efforts, you managed to bring home diet sorbet! I'm insulted! Nobody insults the Joker, nobody!"

"I tried to follow the list! It isn't my fault. You were unreasonable and took advantage of me." Crane defended.

The next kick came below the protection of his ribs. Something that felt suspiciously like his spleen exploded in pain. The Scarecrow shouted several words people with young children and the censors at the FCC frowned upon.

"That's exactly how I felt upon discovering no Count Chocula, no Snickers, no Swedish Fish, and especially no Chunky Monkey! You ruined my hopes and dreams." The Joker said.

"It's Stephanie Myers's fault there's no Count Chocula!" The Scarecrow replied.

"Blaming defenseless women for your mistakes? Even for a guy like you, that's low." The Joker said.

"She's not defenseless, she's Mormon! And I was under extreme duress from those damned Snickers bars."

"Johnny-boy, you really have gone off the deep end, haven't you? How can candy named after laughter possibly cause 'extreme duress'? What did it do, call you a nerd? If it's apparent to inanimate objects, I guess-"

In a move more becoming of the Batman than the Scarecrow, Crane twisted and grabbed the Joker's leg. Before the clown could react, Crane pulled him off his feet. The Joker landed squarely on his butt, and his pinstripe purple pants did nothing to cushion his posterior from the asphalt.

Crane stood, brushing dust from the front of his gray shirt. The gesture was essentially meaningless, since the dirt was nearly the same color as the shirt, and hardly discernable. He wanted to get the damned footprint off his back, but it was in that unreachable region all itches seemed to congregate to. After he dealt with this problem, he'd have to use the washing machine the Joker held in such contempt.

"If I end up in an ass cast, you'll end up in a hole. In pieces." The Joker threatened.

"Forget your useless ass for one minute and listen to me!"

"Harley likes my ass, don't you?"

From the edge of the yard, Harley replied, "Whatever you say, Mister J. Come on, Babies. Uncle Jonathan's gonna have to put up a fence, or somethin'."

The Scarecrow's fingers tangled in his own hair and yanked nearly hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. How was he supposed to get his point across if the Joker refused to be serious long enough for him to talk? Maybe if he had a shotgun to point at the clown, or a bomb to tie around his neck...

"Clown, I have a deadline to give you. This is my house, and I have no intention of leaving. I cannot live with you as you are. Unless you want to move in with Poison Ivy, or crawl down into the sewers with that scaly sideshow refuge, you have to stop trying to kill me. I'm a psychiatrist, whether or not they took away my medical license. I know the idea of you repressing your violent urges is nearly impossible. However, this is what it comes down to. You either shape up, or ship out. I'd prefer the latter, honestly, but for Harley and the hyenas, I'm willing to let you stay if my conditions are met." Crane said.

The Joker forgot all about his rear, threw back his head, and brayed laughter like a donkey. Crane was utterly taken back. He had expected the Joker to become belligerent, threaten him with some inventive torture, perhaps even try to gouge his eyes out for daring to tell the clown his business. What had possibly been funny about that little speech?

"I'm s-sorry, Spooky. It's just, a _deadline_? Who do you think I am? A third-world country's dictator? Get rid of your nukes and stop chopping off heads, or they'll be sanctions? Johnny, you're delusional if you think you can threaten me. If I want to stay, I'll stay. If I want to roast marshmallows, which I noticed you didn't get, I'll use your stuffing as kindling. If I want to cut you into little pieces and feed you to the mutts, I'll do it! _Comprende_?" The Joker asked.

"No. That's not the way it's going to work. I've endured, I've played along, and now I've had enough. I am through being bullied by a man who belongs in the circus or the sanitarium. I am the Scarecrow, damn it, and I deserve some respect!"

More of that overzealous laughter. "Respect you? Ha! Right after I respect the magic conch and gender equality."

The same irrational rage that had convinced Crane jumping on the Joker and punching him was a good idea roared to life again. The Scarecrow's thin fingers balled into fists. His eyes narrowed, and he felt a frighteningly cougar-like snarl building in his throat. All it would take was one more little knock, one more insult, one more unwarranted giggle. Seeing as how the Joker was fifty percent unwarranted giggles, it didn't take him long to trigger a violent reaction.

In half a second, Crane had taken a hold of the Joker's lapels, and was pounding the clown's head into the asphalt driveway. Harley let out a terrified shriek. What was Professor Crane doing to her Puddin'?

As the Scarecrow lifted the Joker for the fourth time, something heavy slammed into the side of his head, directly above his ear. It didn't feel like a fist, or a rock, or a ham sandwich. Whatever the mysterious bludgeon was, it was hard enough to lacerate Crane's scalp and knock him senseless. He slumped over, as limp and boneless as a jellyfish.

"Hey, what's wrong with this thing? Work, come on, start! Where's the button or the trigger, or the detonator? Harley, forget those mangy drain clogs and help me. Stupid Scarecrow, always over-complicating things."

Whatever the Joker had used to brain the Scarecrow with, he began to bash against the driveway. That didn't offer the result he was looking for, so he threw the object at Crane's truck. It rang against the chrome, squashed-bug encrusted grill, and fell to the blacktop. That abuse was similarly unsatisfying, so the clown retrieved the object and used it to make a sizeable hole in the pickup's windshield. The fine upholstery cushioned the impact, forcing the Joker to reach through the window and grab the undamaged item from the seat.

"I've met safes that were easier to crack. Harley! Do we have any dynamite, or C4, or what if I just give it to Lou? He could probably bite through it."

"Mister J, you are not puttin' that thing, whatever it is, in Lou's mouth! What even is it?"

"A canister of Johnny's fear toxin."

Even from his semi-conscious state, Crane had the sense to groan. Bloody hell, he was sick of people turning his own invention against him. Didn't the universe ever get tired of watching him squirm under such dark irony? No, the Scarecrow figured. Probably not.

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Author's Notes: The Mythbusters come through for me again. They proved you can eat Mentos and Diet Coke, and will be totally fine. What a surprise.

As for the man in the Jacuzzi, there is indeed a moron who stuck his genitals in the water jet of a Jacuzzi, and got stuck. The firemen had to cut apart the entire spa. I'm sure its on YouTube.

The Beatles have this one wild video where there's marching shoes and everyone grows a white Gandalf beard. And the yellow submarine flies around in the background.

The Joker's quilt-work socks are the same one Ledger's Joker wears. I think they are the most rockinest socks.

Churchill is the undead cat from _Pet Sematary_. Not cemetery. Sematary!

The magic conch is a toy seashell from _SpongeBob. _It's like a Magic 8-Ball. It wants Squidward to starve in the woods.


	12. Spooky Junior

I'm out of school, and it still takes me three weeks to update this. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I will try harder!

Thanks for all the reviews! I love you all so much!

TotallyTropical: You can see the Joker's crazy socks while he's locked up in TDK.

Purple Ghost Sausage: Thanks for catching my mistakes. I'm normally pretty good with piece VS peace, except with that phrase.

Lauralot: Thanks for all the love. Yeah!

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"Puddin', if you don't know how to use it, put it down. You're gonna make it blow up, and then you're gonna be pickin' shrapnel out of your face. Come on, Mister J, leave Professor Crane's stuff alone." Harley said.

"It's filled with fear toxin, not propane, Harley. I don't think it even can explode. Besides, this is, uh, for science, since the stupid Scarecrow refused to just blow up decently." The Joker replied.

Harley sighed. "Mister J, you all ready know what's gonna happen. It ain't like you never saw Professor Crane dragged back to Arkham screamin' about bats, or crows, or whatever it is he's so afraid of."

If Crane wasn't so worried about his injured head, or the idea of being forced to inhale his own poison and spending the rest of the night in a waking nightmare world where everything from the couch to the malnourished shrubbery was out to kill him, he might have kindly asked Harley to shut her yap trap and not humiliate him. The lucky little clown had never been under the influence of his fear toxin, so she didn't know just how horrible it was. As for the birds and the bats, the Scarecrow was not afraid of either. All right, he wouldn't exactly invite a colony of bats to nest in his attic and hang them around the house as decorations, or touch one, or willingly venture anywhere near where they might live, but that did not equate to a fear of the winged vermin.

"Fine, I'll admit it. I don't care if this has any scientific value at all. I just want to see Johnny miserable. Is that so wrong?" The Clown Prince asked.

"Yeah, it is." Harley said.

The Joker frowned and considered lobbing the canister at Harley. She would probably see it coming and duck. Curse her and her incredible flexibility. Well, curse it now. It had been a lot of fun earlier in the day.

"Who asked you, anyway? Why don't you stop interfering in my conversations with myself and make yourself useful? Help me crack this egg." The Joker said.

"No! If you wanna torture the Professor, leave me outta it." Harley said.

"Help me right now!"

"No way, Mister J!"

"If you don't get over here, so help me-"

Thank God for unhealthy relationships. Crane desperately hoped the two clowns got into a physical brawl that ended with them forgetting all about him and having passionate sex out in the yard, where the neighbors could all gawk. That would give him enough time to crawl the ten feet to his truck, get the engine going again, and get the bloody hell out of there. It would also get the police involved, when that insane cat-collector down the road called the cops to report the Joker had taken off his pants and she was deeply offended by the act. Crane doubted if any of the other neighbors would do anything more than grab their cameras and film the action.

"And then I'll go and stay with Red for, like, three weeks, and you'll have to live with that fat, smelly henchman! And then, even if you come to visit, I'll just shut the blinds and ignore you." Harley yelled.

"I'll burn Red's greenhouse to the ground."

Harley emitted a horrified shriek. "How can you even think to do that? Red's my best friend in the whole world!"

Crane shifted his head, and the world lurched. So that was what it felt like being on a crab fishing boat in the middle of the Bering Sea while an arctic storm churned. Suddenly, the Scarecrow had a good deal more sympathy for the men on _Deadliest Catch_. He certainly would stop abusing them for their excessive use of the word or un-word 'ain't'.

He wouldn't be able to drive if he passed out in the driveway. The Scarecrow brought a hand up to his head, and it came away sticky with blood. Damn it. He'd have a beautiful night, finding a temporary hideout to avoid the police and the Batman, and sewing up his head while he was at it. Sewing frightening masks was a lovely hobby for a villain to have; stitching up what was underneath the mask was at the far opposite end of the fun spectrum.

"I hope Mel eats your feet right off! Then you'll have to stump around on peg legs for the rest of your life."

"Only pirates get peg legs, stupid. Clowns get bionic robot feet."

"They do not."

"Do too."

"Uh-uh, there's no way anybody's givin' you bionic feet."

It was like an argument between two especially slow and vindictive kindergarteners. Crane, was he not in danger of being attacked with his own poison, might have stayed around to see who won the verbal sparring match. Harley, obviously, was right, but the Joker was insane and utterly immune to logic. He was like the Anti-Spock. Of course, the Scarecrow would take the canister from the Joker's hand and willingly inhale the contents before revealing he made _Star Trek_ analogies in his head.

The Scarecrow risked enduring another attack of vertigo to raise himself up onto his elbows. The Joker missed the movement entirely; he was too busy shouting about all the things he would crush when he had robotic legs. For some reason, the clown said he wanted to destroy all the places that sold coffee for more than three dollars. As far as Crane knew, the Joker didn't even drink coffee. The caffeine, combined with his constant hyper insanity would probably make his eyeballs explode from the pressure.

The Scarecrow dragged his body forward a few inches. The world threatened to hurtle out of control and send him flying into the void. That damned, foul, abusive, lunatic clown had certainly given him a concussion, and a possible skull fracture. Crane wouldn't be all that surprised if he was found by the police sometime before morning, muttering incoherently and bleeding from his ears.

The pickup stood mockingly ten feet away. If the Scarecrow hadn't been brained, he could have covered the distance in a second. At this pace, a crawl a banana slug with a defective pseudopod could have matched, Crane would be lucky to reach it before the sun crept over the horizon in the morning.

"And then I would... Hey, Spooky, where do you think you're going? Is my plot to stomp on Batman's face with robotic feet boring you?" The Joker asked.

"Eh?"

"Eh? Eh is not an answer." The Joker said.

Crane had a precious few options. He could lie, and say the Joker's violent and utterly nonsensical plan for acquiring futuristic and lethal prosthetics was incredibly fascinating to him. The Joker would probably see right through him, and add a fresh dose of pain to the Scarecrow's misery. Crane could also tell the truth, though, despite the popular saying, it would not set him free. It would likely end up putting him in a full body cast for the next three months. He supposed, legally, he could plead the Fifth and not incriminate himself. There wasn't much of a chance the Joker knew or cared about constitutional law, sadly.

"No, it's not boring. I wouldn't mind seeing his head stomped on." The Scarecrow said. "In fact, I find the idea tantalizing."

"Then why are you slithering away like a snake?" The clown asked.

"I, uh, miss my mask and want it to hear every graphic detail. It's in the truck, sitting on the passenger's seat." Crane said.

"You want _your mask_ to hear my devilishly delightful plan? Next time the Arkham therapists say you have a problem, you should listen." The Joker said.

"Right, coming from the man who thinks it's funny to give orphaned children balloons filled with toxic gas." Crane muttered. The crazy clown didn't hear him.

"I guess having a bigger audience wouldn't hurt. Since Harley's being a brat about my brilliant plan, I'll just ignore her and pretend she's not even there." The Joker said.

Harley stuck her tongue out. When the Joker failed to acknowledge her, she began to pull a series of increasingly grotesque faces. Crane idly wondered how one of his subjects, under the influence of fear toxin, would react to the blonde's incredibly rubber face. He predicted there would be much screaming, flailing, and crying.

The Joker continued to deny Harley's existence, even when she stuck a finger in each nostril and began to snort like an angry bull. He patted Crane on the head, the slight contact enough to make the Scarecrow wish he'd just pass out already. The clown walked over to the pickup, opened the door, and retrieved the burlap mask.

Instead of handing the mask back to its rightful owner, the Joker slipped it over his right hand, like the world's ugliest sock puppet. Crane grimaced in abject horror. He had put his head, his _face_ inside there! Now the Joker was touching it. Every time he put the mask on in the future, he'd have to remember the lunatic's long, pale fingers playing with it. The Scarecrow wanted to scream.

"Hi, I'm Johnny's mask, but you can call me Spooky Junior. I'm made from a potato sack, and I live on the Scarecrow's head. He needs to shower more, before things start living in his hair." The Joker, or the mask dancing around on his hand, said.

The voice the mad clown chose for Crane's mask would have sounded perfectly natural coming out of Barney the Dinosaur. It was the bubbly, cheerful tone that kids under the age of five couldn't get enough of, and everyone over the age of five ran away from. The voice fit the mask about as well as Cinderella's glass slipper fit the massive paw of her stepsister.

"Really? Isn't that just fascinating? And, why does Johnny love you so much, Spooky Junior?" The Joker asked his own hand.

"Because he never had a real girlfriend in his entire life. Poor Johnny spent all his days in his lab, and all his nights attacking the hookers that wouldn't sleep with him because he was such a nerd." The clown said.

Crane went bright scarlet from a combination of rage and humiliation. How dare the Joker defile his mask, threaten his sexual prowess, belittle his experiments and his motivations, and insinuate that he picked up hookers! Forgetting about how the world tended to shake, rattle and roll like California during the feared Big One whenever he moved his head, the Scarecrow pushed himself up into a sitting position. When he unwisely tried to stand, his own mask was shoved into his face.

"We're trying to have a friendly conversation about the ladies of the night, Johnny. Sit down, sit down, sit down!" The mask said.

When Crane was a little too slow in his response, his trusted burlap sack began to whack him on the head. The Scarecrow stumbled backwards, desperately trying to grab onto something. If he knocked his skull off anything, especially the asphalt driveway, he was going out. He all ready knew what kind of mischief the Joker got up to with his unconscious body. He had no desire to wake up with a migraine and find himself dressed in women's lingerie or something equally mortifying.

By some miracle, Crane was just quick enough to grab hold of his mask, and the Joker's hand beneath it. The clown was yanked forward, nearly losing his footing. For one second, the Scarecrow was sure he was going to pull the Joker down on top of him. Then he could spend the rest of his life mentally traumatized.

The Joker managed to dig his shoes in and regain his balance. The Scarecrow was still hanging onto his hand like a clingy girlfriend. For a guy who had just been beaten over the head, he had a tenacious grip.

"What'd you think you're doing? That's my hand! Give it back." The Joker demanded.

"And that's my mask. Give it to me and I'll let go." Crane replied.

"I'm having a nice chat with Spooky Junior. You'll get him back when I'm done with him. I can't promise he'll be in one piece, or not on fire, because I like to play rough, but you will get him back eventually." The Joker said.

"You're not burning my mask, you son of a bitch!" The Scarecrow shouted.

"Maybe I'll just paint Junior pink and put Harley's Disney stickers all over him. Then he can have a gender crisis, and you can deal with that." The clown said.

"My mask is not gay, or transsexual! Or any sex at all for that matter. That still doesn't mean I'm letting _you_ touch it anymore." Crane said.

"I don't think it's very tolerant of you not to accept Spooky Junior the way he is. Maybe Harley and I should adopt him. What do you think Harley? Do you want a kid?"

Harley stopped pulling faces and let out a happy squeak. "Do you mean it, Mister J? Are we really gonna have an actual kid? Or are we gonna steal one from somebody and raise him as our own? What's it gonna be Puddin'?"

"We're taking Spooky Junior because Johnny's prejudiced against the gay community, which Junior is obviously a member of. If you asked me, Johnny might be one of those gays in denial, the way he's holding my hand. It isn't that I'm not flattered, but I've got my Harley and she's got that mallet…" The Joker said.

Harley's face fell, her pigtails drooping. "Oh, I don't even like that mask. It's ugly and kinda looks like somethin' Michael Myers would wear in _Halloween_. You know I don't like that movie, Mister J."

"I'm not raising a dysfunctional kid by myself. He's your problem again, Spooky." The Joker said.

The clown released his hold on the mask and pulled his arm back. He slipped through Crane's fingers, and the Scarecrow was left holding his mask and wearing a confused looked on his face. How in the world could Harley take care of a child? How did his mask look anything like the _Halloween_ horror show? Why couldn't Batman just run over the Joker late one night? It wasn't like Crane, or anyone except Harley, would cry at the circus-themed funeral.

Since he was on his feet, had his mask, and the Joker didn't look any more murderous than usual, Crane decided now was the best time to seek greener pastures. Most anything, including a barge carrying garbage or a crack house populated by wasted junkies and strung-out gang members, would have qualified as a sufficiently green pasture at that moment.

"I'm leaving. You certainly beat me enough times, so I'm going elsewhere. Please refrain from burning the place down; at least release my lab animals before you do." The Scarecrow said.

Wobbling like a toddler taking his first steps as a biped, Crane managed to make it to his truck. He noticed the large hole in his windshield, and gave the clown a glare that could have melted sand into glass. The Joker merely shrugged, failing miserably to act innocent.

Crane could only hope the police would be too busy trying to round up witnesses to his attack at the market to worry about pulling over a driver with a broken windshield. He supposed he had enough fear toxin left to gas a cop or two, but he didn't want to risk it. The last thing the Scarecrow needed right now, or ever, was a baton to the face and a long ride back to Arkham with Gotham's finest.

After the epic battle Crane had fought to get his mask back, he wasn't going to risk letting anything happen to the hideous thing. Crane leaned through the open driver's side window and gently placed the mask on the seat. He knew it was an inanimate piece of sackcloth, but he treated it better than he treated most people.

Since the Scarecrow had hotwired the truck, the only way for him to shut it off had been to untwist the ignition wires. Now, to get the engine revving again, he had to wrap the wires around each other. He was particularly careful this time and managed to avoid the painful shock that had sent him hopping around the parking lot.

The Scarecrow dragged his slow, sore, sorry carcass to the back of the truck and propped up the tail gate. There were still several grocery bags sitting in the bed of the pickup, stuff the Joker either didn't want or had forgotten about. Crane didn't want food he had worked so hard to procure bouncing down the street and disrupting traffic. He wanted to avoid all detection until he could figure out where to make a new nest.

With the cargo secured and the engine rumbling, the Scarecrow got behind the wheel. Harley, her two hyenas lying on the grass next to her, waved energetically. Lou had the decency to look up and at least acknowledge the truck. Bud began to scratch his neck scruff eagerly.

"Bye-bye, Professor! I'll come visit you real soon!"

Crane grimaced. If Harley came to visit, she would probably bring her parasitic lover with her. Those two were like Chang and Eng Bunker, sideshow freaks who were forever stuck together. The Scarecrow wondered if there was anywhere in Gotham the Joker couldn't find him, no matter how persistent he was or how many people he tried to torture information out of. He supposed he could hide in someone's attic like Anne Frank and just hope the homeowners thought the thumping was from an obese rat.

Harley was still waving with enough enthusiasm to snap her hand clean off. The Scarecrow reluctantly brought up a hand, and gave it the smallest perceptible twitch. That only served to encourage the blonde, who now began to furiously wave with both hands. If she kept that up, she was going to achieve lift-off.

"Good luck and good night, child." Crane said.

He put the pickup in reverse, and Crane turned his head to make sure the driveway was clear of obstacles. The motion sent unpleasant quivers of pain through the Scarecrow's head. He'd have to be careful with the monstrous Gotham potholes, some large enough to eat cars whole. They'd rattle the teeth straight from his jaws, and all that shaking and bumping on his injured head would probably make him sick.

The Scarecrow was near the end of the driveway when something came flying through the windshield. Crane instinctively jerked the wheel, careening off the driveway and onto the wilted lawn. The tires, meant to grip anything from cracked city pavement to the crags of the Rockies, at least according to the commercials, tore up the grass.

The brakes must have been relatively new, because when Crane stomped on them, the truck jerked to such a violent stop the Scarecrow was nearly tossed into the steering wheel. He moaned and brought both hands from the wheel and up to his head. Damn it, he was going to end up with permanent brain damage.

"That bastard! What in the hell did he... No!" Crane cried.

A cloud of green smoke was rising like London fog from the passenger's seat foot space. All the pounding against Crane's head, pickup, and paved driveway hadn't been able to trigger the canister. Since the universe was strictly anti-Scarecrow, and wasn't about to waffle on that position, one more journey through the windshield had to activate the canister.

Suddenly changing direction and then slamming on the brakes had dislodged the protective mask, too. Crane reached over, holding his breath, only to find the seat empty. Well, bugger it. The toxin wasn't going to make his non-living mask hallucinate for hours. He would find the damned thing once the truck aired out and after he killed the Joker. The clown had shot the television to death; the gun still had to be in the house somewhere.

Crane shoved against the door, only to find it wouldn't open. The Joker was pushing against the door, keeping it firmly shut.

"Let me out of here, you psychotic bastard!" Crane yelled, knowing he shouldn't waste his breath.

The Joker was as unmoving as an Easter Island head. The Scarecrow considered trying to punch him, but then got a better idea. There were two doors in the truck, after all.

After a second submerged in the toxic green smog, Crane found the handle to the passenger door and got it open. He could hear the Joker cursing from the other side of the truck. The Scarecrow might have been a nerd, but he wasn't so stupid as to forget how many doors the average pickup had.

"How do you like that, clown?" The Scarecrow asked.

The Joker might have been stupid enough to miss an obvious escape route, but Crane was stupid enough to forget his bearings. There had been no time for the wind to dissipate the fear toxin. As soon as the Scarecrow took a breath following his taunt, he realized his mistake.

"Shit!"

Totally immune to the poison, the Joker strolled around the truck to find Crane stumbling around, waving one arm awkwardly in front of him, as though trying to ward off an attack and doing a very poor job of it. A normal human being, even one who wasn't partial to charity, would have felt bad for the Scarecrow. The Joker found the situation not pitiable, or poetically ironic, but downright hilarious.

"Hey, Spooky, boo!" The Joker said.

Crane reacted as though he had walked into his home and found the severed heads of all his friends and family lined up on the mantle. He shouted, flailing at the Joker with one arm and covering his eyes with the other. If the Joker was bad enough without the influence of the mind-altering drug, he was utterly unbearable now.

While the Scarecrow whimpered and fought with whatever twisted things he was seeing in the empty yard, the Joker's sick brain hatched another idea. Since the Mentos and Coke had been an enormous failure, it was only right to conduct another experiment. Johnny seemed in the right state of mind; actually, Johnny was waging mortal combat with a mosquito at the moment. Whatever. The Joker had never been one to worry about the boring parts of science.

"Harley, go and find me some stuff!" The Joker demanded.

The harlequin, still flanked by Lou and Bud, peered curiously at Crane. "Uh, what sort of stuff? Like a straightjacket, 'cause he's gonna need one?"

"No, I've still got half a roll of duct tape if it comes to that. I mean like common household items. Like the blender, that stick over there, one of the lab mice, and the toilet plunger. Yeah, definitely the plunger." The Joker replied.

"Mister J, even for you that's random. What're you gonna do with a stick and a mouse?" Harley asked.

"I'm going to see what scares the Scarecrow worst. Then I can haunt him with it. Chop, chop, Harley, daylight's wasting." The Clown Prince said.

"Puddin', it's already pretty dark. It ain't gonna be light again 'til tomorrow." Harley said. Her beau gave her a withering look. "Okey-dokey, I'm going, I'm going. Keep your shirt on."

While Harley went off to find another bad-news list, the Joker went in search of Crane. While the clown had been bossing Harley around, the Scarecrow had slithered under his truck. He was quite the pathetic sight, his arms over his head and violent shivers shaking him.

"Hey, Mop Man, you never heard about killer cars before? I mean, you're practically offering yourself to it." The Joker said.

Crane, who had been feeling slightly safer under the truck, shot out like a rabbit. He scrambled on the asphalt, took one look at the purple pickup, and discovered its innocuous vehicular features were gone. The headlights had become glaring eyes, the grill a grisly mouth. It was no wonder GM and Ford were going down. No one wanted to drive a monster that would eat them the moment they turned their backs!

The Joker watched, positively giddy, as the Scarecrow backed away from his truck, his hands up in front of his face in case it sprung at him. The Joker didn't know how long Johnny's poison lingered in the body, but the clown intended to enjoy every second of it.

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Author's Notes:

_Deadliest Catch_ is about the fleet of ships that fish for crab in the Bering Sea. The sea is never all that kind to them, and they aren't that kind to grammar.

Mel, the giant Venus flytrap, is named after Mel Brooks, director of such great comedies as _Young Frankenstein _and _Blazing Saddles_.

To "plead the Fifth" is to utilize the 5th Amendment of the US Constitution, which prevents a person from being forced to testify against himself in a trial.

Spock, and the Vulcan race, are deeply devoted to reason and logic. And waxed eyebrows.

Chang and Eng Bunker are the original Siamese twins.

Anne Frank it most noted for her diary, detailing her life of hiding in an attic from the Nazis.


	13. The Pickup from Hell

Very, very, extremely sorry for the obscene delay. There was a family tragedy, my cousin passed away from cancer, and well, I wasn't much in the mood for humor. He was a good friend of mine when we were both a little younger.

Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews! I owe you lot a great debt. Your reviews really get my heart warm and fuzzy. Never mind how disturbing a furry heart would be…

Adi Sagestar: A booger monster from planet Ick? Lordy… I don't want to ever see that.

Jack Naiper: I always imagined the Scarecrow to be a little taller. Is he officially? I have no idea.

Lauralot: You'd film the Joker having sex? You live dangerously, I see.

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A voice that normally bothered Harley during the wee hours of the morning following a night of violence and debauchery made itself known. She assumed it was her conscience, which was nowhere near as cute or talented as Jiminy Cricket, though just as small. It was obviously upset over how badly the Joker was treating Professor Crane, and how eager she was to enable the abuse. It wasn't like the Prof wasn't a nice guy, sharing his house and his food and all that, or that she enjoyed seeing him in such a sorry state. It was just that Mister J really needed this from her, and Harley's loyalty to him would always trump anyone's health or wellbeing, including her own.

Harley grabbed a number of small items from all corners of the house. She picked up the pizza cutter from the kitchen floor, the remote for the dearly departed television, the half-empty can of okra she had entirely forgotten about, a spoon, the toilet plunger Mister J so adamantly wanted, and then wondered how she was going to carry a squirming mouse, too. She supposed she could find a box to trap the little critter in, but it would still be a hassle. Besides, she didn't know exactly what sort of experiments the mice had been subject to; she'd read enough of the Joker's comic books to know sometimes science experiments had unintended results. Most of the time, when an experiment went south, it just caused an explosion that splattered the scientist all over the wall. On rare occasions, so claimed the comics, it turned the scientists into giant green monsters or permanently fused four mechanical arms to their backs.

None of the mice had developed superpowers thanks to Crane's experiments, but one of them had died. Harley tapped on the wire mesh of the cage, just to make sure the mouse wasn't sleeping in an insanely unpleasant position. It wasn't.

"I am not touchin' a dead mouse. Or his or her mournin' family. Don't worry, little mousy, I'll make sure you get a proper burial." Harley said. The mouse, being dead, made no response. Its mourning family, being mice, didn't respond either.

Instead of a downsized rat, Harley made do with one of Crane's textbooks. It was one of his smaller books, though it must have weighed a solid ten pounds and would serve as a decent bludgeon. Out of curiosity, she cracked the book open and scanned the first few pages. She was lucky to understand three words in every paragraph. Incredibly, the Scarecrow more than understood the book; he had corrected it or expanded on it. Every margin of empty space was filled with Crane's crowded handwriting. Most of his writing was hard to decipher, since he used a wide variety of abbreviations and symbols only he was savvy to. If anyone on the outside wanted to read this, they'd have to find Robert Langdon, since the original author probably wouldn't share his code.

"Jeez, Professor, you are a nerd." Harley said. She slammed the book shut, gathered up the rest of her household items, and headed out to see what the Joker and Scarecrow had gotten into.

After all the effort Crane had put into getting to his truck, he now wanted nothing to do with it. Any human, discovering his mode of transportation was just a cleverly disguised killing machine, and not the Decepticon kind, would have had a similar reaction. A normal person wouldn't have had the Joker hanging around like a black cloud of misery and despair to make the situation worse, though.

"Come on, Spooky, don't you want to go for a ride? I'll even drive, since you couldn't buckle your own seat belt at the moment." The Joker said.

"I'm not getting near that thing, and if you had any brains, neither would you! Can't you see what it really is? It rolled off the assembly line in the eighth circle of Hell!" Crane said.

"I'm just not seeing what you're talking about. Maybe if you came over here and showed me where the fangs and scales are..." The clown suggested.

"No!" The Scarecrow wailed.

The Joker took a step toward the utterly ordinary, if somewhat damaged, pickup. Crane, dead sure his vehicle was as homicidal as anyone sitting on death row, felt a far sharper stab of panic than what was constantly needling at him. Once the pickup tasted blood, even the chemical soup that flowed in the Joker, it would go on a rampage, heading straight for the Scarecrow.

The Clown Prince scooted a little closer to the truck. He extended one hand toward the hood, which Crane saw as a protruding snout filled with the chaotic and bristling teeth of an angler fish. The Scarecrow, his sensibilities currently taking a week-long cruise to Bermuda, could practically hear the crunch that would signal the Joker was now down an arm.

"Please, don't do it!"

"I'm not touching it. I'm not touching it. Okay, now I'm touching it."

Crane closed his eyes, turned his back on the Joker and the truck, and began a pitifully uncoordinated blind run from the scene. Poisoned, mad with fear, and certain of an impending and messy death beneath the pickup's four wheels, the Scarecrow paid no attention to where he was heading. He just needed to get out of the area.

"Professor, watch out for that hyena!"

Lou, intrigued by the smell of blood from the Scarecrow's head wound and by his clumsy gait, had gone to investigate. It was a predator's nature to hone in on a weak animal, and Lou, despite all the cosseting Harley did, was still a carnivore and a hunter. Though the hyena didn't intend to eat Crane, since he had just polished off a bag of nachos and a jar of salsa, his instincts demanded he at least go over and sniff.

Harley's warning came in time. The Scarecrow opened his eyes, saw the hyena loping straight for him, and promptly suffered a severe freak-out.

The mutt Crane had actually come to like, as much as he could like something that drooled, scratched, ate, snored, and licked as much as Lou did, was now on par with the evil car. All evidence of cuteness or cuddliness in the hyena had vanished. It had been transformed into a matted, mangy, vaguely werewolf-like beast that would have sent even the most passionate animal lover running for the nearest shotgun.

Crane's bizarre actions, obvious to a human as desperate and terrified, only served to inflame Lou's curiosity. The hyena wasn't sure what the Scarecrow was up to, or what it meant when humans flailed their arms and cried because Harley never acted like that. Despite the odd motions Crane was making, Lou was sure he wanted to play. The hyena barked, and sprinted for Crane, intending to jump on him and commence the licking.

"No, no, no! Get away from me!" The Scarecrow said.

The hyena misconstrued Crane's flailing and moaning as an invitation for free tummy rubs. Lou threw his furry body at the Scarecrow, and tried to rub against his legs like a cat would. When the hyena did that to Harley, she normally melted like ice cream and snuggled her Baby, cooing at him all the while. Lou decided he could really use some of that cuddling right about now.

Instead of the fun Lou was expecting, he got a misplaced kick aimed at his nose. Crane, utterly panicked by the sight of the hyena, had lashed out with the only weapon he had: his foot. He missed by roughly a light year, and nearly ended up losing his balance. Lou made a laugh-like bark of amusement, not realizing the Scarecrow had been trying to kick his snout in. Harley's hyenas were perhaps a little too sure of Crane's good intentions.

"Professor! How could you try to kick my Lou?" Harley cried.

"He's a monster! Disgusting, I can't believe I let it sleep in my bed! The germs, the parasites, the rabies, Jesus!"

Harley stomped her foot. "My precious Lou does not have rabies!"

"He's diseased."

"Take it back right now!"

"Ah!"

"That don't sound like an apology."

Persistent, Lou darted forward again. He nipped playfully at Crane's shoe, which had been aimed at the hyena's head only a minute ago. The Scarecrow yanked his foot back so violently he nearly ended up losing his balance. It was only the belief that the mutt, made into a monster by the toxin, would maul and nibble him to death that kept Crane on his feet.

Crane wished fervently that he hadn't been such a major purveyor of horror stories, both the written and the filmed, during his life. Right now, standing in front of him, was the product of every killer dog and lycanthropic nightmare. All the werewolves in London and rabid St. Bernards in Maine had all been rolled into one furry mass. A furry mass he had shared his home and his food with. A furry mass he had, dare he say it, grown attached to. The Scarecrow, had he not been in such a mode of panic, might have broken down in a loud, weepy mess. It just wasn't fair. Anything he liked—his house, truck, mask, brilliant mind—all ended up getting taken away from him.

The hyena took another snap at Crane's foot. Unable to accomplish anything close to a run, the Scarecrow's sole option of escape was to fight. He waited for Lou to come at his shoe again. This time he had the speed judged perfectly. Crane's foot caught the hyena right under the chin, snapping the mutt's jaws together.

"LOU!" Harley howled.

Lou yipped and backed away, tail between his legs. Apparently, the Scarecrow did not want to play; he wanted to fight. The hyena wasn't in the mood for getting rough and tumbling, so, whining and whimpering, Lou scampered back towards Harley.

"My poor, poor Lou. Come here to Mommy, let her kiss you and make it better." Harley said.

The Joker, who had been expecting a night of delightful torture and humiliation for the Scarecrow, frowned as the hyena came to Harley. "Harley, why don't you kiss my boo-boos like that? I'm your Puddin' and I stole you that mangy ball of fur! Where's my love?"

"This ain't about you right now, Mister J. 'Sides, you already got your lovin' for today. Here, read 'bout the wonders of chemistry." Harley said.

To the Joker's chagrin, Harley dumped her armload of random objects onto the ground, and threw Crane's science textbook to him. The blonde, now free of her burden, knelt down to comfort Lou. The hyena was exaggerating the extent of his injury, whining and yipping with such pain it appeared the Scarecrow's lucky kick had broken the mutt's jaw. Harley gathered up the hyena, just as one would a kid who'd taken a nasty fall at the playground.

While Harley comforted Lou, the Joker began to make gagging noises. It was disgusting just how much attention those hyenas got, and how much Harley neglected him. Well, if Harley was going to be so wrapped up in her flea-ridden dirt magnets, he'd just have to go find someone else to keep him company. Johnny the Mop Man seemed like the obvious choice.

Well, that was certainly anticlimactic. For the first time in known history, a werewolf, if that was what Lou had truly become, had been driven off by less than a silver bullet. Less than a lead bullet, or a sword, or any implement that posed even a marginal threat. If Crane wasn't still shaking from just the sight of the hyena, he would have been very proud of his kicking prowess.

Lou might have been dissuaded with a knock to the jaw. The Joker, however, was quite a bit taller than the hyena, and Crane, not being a kick-boxer with incredibly flexible thighs, had no way to kick him in the head. Besides his bipedal stance, the Joker also had the advantage of appearing as scary beyond all reason to the poisoned Scarecrow.

"Hey, Johnny! Right here, I want attention, hey-ho!" The Joker said loudly.

The Scarecrow had purposely avoided taking a close look at the Joker, because he was drop-dead positive the lunatic would be scary enough to literally drop him as dead as the Latin language. Now the Joker demanded attention. If he didn't get it, he was likely going to burn something down or blow something up, and continue to do so until Crane couldn't stand the smoke anymore and finally gave in. While holding out didn't seem like a very good plan, just looking at the Joker and dying like someone who'd stared into the eyes of a Basilisk didn't sound like much of a party, either.

"What do you want, clown? Please, just go and play with yourself somewhere far, far away." The Scarecrow said.

"Go and play with myself? That sounds pretty lonely, unless by play with myself you mean-"

"I'm going to die. I'm just going to die."

"Don't you think you're bein' a little too dramatic, Professor?" Harley asked.

Crane was not being overly dramatic; if the image his tormented brain had just cooked up had been broadcast live on television, not one person would ever turn on their TV set for the rest of eternity. While the Scarecrow always did possess a somewhat graphic imagination, the poison playing havoc on his mind turned his thoughts into nightmares.

"I think you're right, Harley. He's just being a girl about this whole thing. I think he really has to learn to suck it up." The Joker said.

'Suck it up' was easy for the Joker to say. He was totally immune to any toxic compound the Scarecrow could cook up. The psychotic clown had never been haunted by a fanged truck, a rabid werewolf hyena, or a bat straight from hell.

Since Crane was perfectly miserable as he was, and wanted to add to that misery about as much as he wanted to stick his head in Killer Croc's maw, he decided to continue the retreat Lou had interrupted. He was in no state to form an escape plan, but his logic had been sealed away next to most of his sanity.

"Where does he think he's going?" The Joker asked.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure that's west, Puddin. Cause the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Or is it the other way around? I better never get lost in the woods." Harley said.

"Pumpkin pie, you're one of those people who sound smartest when their mouths are closed. Get where I'm going?" The clown asked.

Harley scowled and clutched Lou closer. What right did Mister J have to make fun of her for not knowing directions? He was the guy who got lost trying to find a bank to rob and ended up in New Jersey. Harley might not know her east from her west, but she had never ended up staring at a sign for Hackensack and not knowing how she had gotten there.

"I'm going to go give the Mop Man a heart attack. Try not to wander off to Timbuktu while I'm gone, okay?" The Joker said.

"If I do, don't expect any phone calls, Mister J!"

The Joker ignored Harley's indignation, and took off after the Scarecrow. He doubted if Timbuktu even had phone service. Actually, the Joker wasn't even sure if Timbuktu was a real place, or just some fantasy with an amazing name, like Shangri-La or Candy Land.

The Clown Prince would go find a world atlas or make good use of an Internet search engine later. Right now, he had to steer the wayward Dr. Crane away from the street before he stumbled in front of a garbage truck and was knocked clean out of his shoes.

Unlike most animals, especially squirrels and possums, the Scarecrow was not going to dash madly out into the road and beneath the wheels of a sedan. The occasional traffic that passed by terrified him as badly as his stolen truck did. Everything from the average SUV to a Gotham News van blowing by at three times the posted speed limit looked like it was ready to munch on someone's face. Crane was not, under pain of violent death, going to go near the metal monsters.

The Scarecrow headed for his neighbor's yard. Their house was actually empty, because their mortgage had eaten them alive three months ago. Nobody was going to notice one tall, shaking mad scientist running for his life until he got to a more populated section of the _barrio_.

Before Crane could crawl over the low fence that separated the two properties, the Joker caught up to him. The Scarecrow had been running the helter-skelter pattern of a drunk at three in the morning trying to flee a DUI rap. It wasn't particularly hard for the clown to get at him.

Instead of jumping on Crane and knocking him to the ground, the Joker chucked the chemistry book at his legs. The textbook wasn't as refined as a boomerang, but it was heavy enough to knock the Scarecrow's leg out from under him. He stumbled, flailed wildly, and ended up going down hard.

"Got you, Spooky. What do you say to another experiment? You'll really like this one; it involves fear and screaming and a toilet plunger. Fun, huh?" The Joker said.

Crane didn't respond. The Joker walked closer and nudged his foot. "Hey, Mop Man, are you listening to me?"

A cricket chirping somewhere in the grass was the only noise. The Scarecrow didn't so much as twitch. He must have knocked his head when he fell. That was just dandy.

"You spend too much time unconscious. It isn't good." The Joker said. He grabbed hold of the Scarecrow's thin ankles and began to drag his unmoving body back toward the house. After moving about three feet, the Joker got bored and summoned Harley to finish the job.

"I am so sick of doin' this, Mister J! Why don't you stop knockin' the Professor out? Is that really so hard? I don't think so!"

"Harley-girl, you don't think. Just keep yanking. You've got another fifty feet to the front door."

While Harley pulled the Scarecrow, the Joker went to gather up the miscellaneous crap Harley had dropped. She really had selected quite an interesting array of tools. The Joker was dying of anticipation; he was desperate to see how Crane reacted to that toilet plunger. It would probably be a reaction he could laugh at for the rest of his life.

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Author's Notes: Jiminy Cricket was Pinocchio's conscious, teaching him about right and wrong through the wonder of song.

Robert Langdon is the hero from _The Da Vince Code_ and _Angels and Demons_. He can decipher pretty much any ancient puzzle, code, or carefully disguised clue.

Decepticons are the evil shape-shifting robots from the _Transformers_ series.

The werewolf in London refers to the movie _An American Werewolf in London_. The rabid St. Bernard is Cujo.

A Basilisk is a monster snake capable of killing with its stare. See _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_.

This is the last time I will mention the Scarecrow's thighs, even in passing. Ever.

Timbuktu is in the African nation, Mali. It is real.


	14. Spider Sense

Sorry for the delay. I actually published another fanfic, so my mind was divided between two projects. Sigh. Now I know how Two-Face feels... On the bright side, if anyone likes the anime D. Gray-man, you've got something to read! If you're going 'that's what she wasted her ruddy time on?!' I cry your pardon forever.

Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for the understanding. Or, if you're angry with me over the delay, thanks for not beating me up.

Mad Scientist Sidekick: It certainly does depend on the medium. I just always see the Scarecrow as the comics show him. After all, I'm 5'8'', and I can't imagine being nearly equal in height to him.

SendMoreParamedics: No more thighs, but there's something else in this chapter for you.

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It felt like Borat's mentally disabled, violent brother was rattling and banging around inside his head. In the gray fugue state he was currently floating around in, that was the only appropriate simile Crane could come up with. The pain in his skull was so awful it was maddening, and nauseating. The Scarecrow didn't know if he was going to die, pass out into that beautiful oblivion, or just vomit all over his shoes. Of the three options, he was leaning towards desiring death.

"I'm going to hit him again."

"It didn't work the first time."

"I know; it was just great for my stress levels."

"That's what you say about blowin' up cop cars, settin' the chimps at the zoo free on kids, and stealin' candy from babies."

"Some people meditate, some pop pills, I make people laugh. Or destroy their personal property. Or kill a few innocent bystanders. It's a perfectly normal coping mechanism, Harley. Didn't you ever read about it in college?"

So the Joker was still hanging around, like a foot fungus that wouldn't be cured no matter what prescribed cream was rubbed on it. In that case, the Scarecrow stopped straddling the fence and cast his vote for never getting up again. Of course, just desiring to be dead didn't instantly stop a heart or short-circuit a nervous system. If it did, everyone on Earth would have been dead by their early teenage years.

"He just twitched. Maybe he's waking up!"

"Or maybe he's deep in REM sleep. Or maybe he's in a coma and he's never gonna get up again. Did you ever think about that, Mister J? What if he's bleedin' in his brain right now, and that twitch was somethin' important dying?"

The Joker shrugged his shoulders, a gesture the Scarecrow was oblivious to but which made Harley scowl. How inconsiderate could a guy get? Even if the Joker didn't really care if Crane's brain was hemorrhaging, he could at least pretend to give the tiniest damn.

"I've had enough of Sleeping Beauty's act. If he won't wake up, I'm getting the joy buzzer and frying him until he either kicks the bucket or gets his butt in gear."

Damn it all. Crane all ready felt like he'd gone 12 rounds with a T-rex, and now he was faced with either coming fully back to a conscious state or riding the lightning again. Both options were utter trash. Why couldn't he ever have one nice choice?

"No." The Scarecrow croaked. He sounded as pitiful as an old woman who'd fallen and couldn't get up.

The Clown Prince forgot all about his electrifying toy and hopped over to Crane. "Enjoy your sleep, Spooky? I hope so, because you've got a long night ahead of you."

Crane tried to raise his head to glare at the Joker, but his neck wouldn't support the weight of his head. He felt like a sunflower that had grown too large for its stalk. If he didn't even have the strength to move his head, any chance of escape was gone.

"Harley, get the toilet plunger." The Joker said.

"Stop clogging the toilet. The plumbing..." The Scarecrow's peep of a voice died and his mind went blank. What was plumbing, again? And why did the toilet keep clogging? He couldn't remember what a toilet plunger looked like, or why the Joker was got so giggly over it. Crane deduced he had the mother of all concussions. If he survived, he might have no choice but to limp to a hospital. If he could remember where any Gotham hospitals were located.

Harley handed over the toilet plunger, and the Joker grinned broadly at it. He poked Crane in the chest with it, gingerly at first and then hard enough to get annoying.

"Hey, Spooky, it's the attack of the killer toilet plunger. Are you afraid of it?"

Crane wearily looked at the plunger, which was suctioning at his shirt like the sucker of a Humboldt squid. It really was a ridiculous looking thing, made of pink rubber with a wooden handle sticking out of it like a stiff tail. Why on Earth would he be afraid of it?

Of course. When he was knocked out however long ago he was, there was nothing he wasn't afraid of. Bambi could probably have sent him into a screaming fit. While unconscious, his body must have processed the fear toxin and now he wasn't such a pitiful loon. The Joker didn't realize his victim was back to normal, so he was intent on carrying out his dastardly plan.

"Not scary." Crane said.

"Are you even looking, or are your eyes closed?" The clown asked.

"Eyes open." Crane replied. Lovely, he was able to string two words together and no more. That was all right. The most important phrases—not guilty, screw you, feed me, go die, Batman, I'm sane—were only two words long. Or was Batman a compound word?

"That is truly disappointing. Harley, find me something scarier. Where's that nerdy book you have? The one he scribbled all over." The Joker said.

Harley trotted over to the pile of randomly assorted junk the Joker hoped to scare Crane with. She grabbed the textbook, and gave it to Mister J. The clown opened it, flipped through a few pages, and finally shoved the book in the Scarecrow's face.

"Here's something scary, huh? Extensive research on, uh, that word has fifty syllables. This is starting to scare _me_." The Joker said.

How did the Joker survive so long being such a twit? The word he was stuck on—deionization—wasn't exactly rocket science. It was quite self-explanatory, even. The middling tenth grade chemistry dolt, hanging on to a C average, could probably define the term.

"Deionization, idiot. Taking the ions out of something, usually water." Crane said. He sounded more like someone who'd just had a portion of their larynx removed, instead of a professor amazed at his students' continued and astounding stupidity.

"This isn't scaring you, either? No, I guess it wouldn't. It's still too comforting for a nerd like you. Maybe if I burned some comic books… You keep your back issues of _Wonder Woman_ around here somewhere?"

Crane had never been one for wishful thinking. He didn't sit around, wishing he could bring a city to its knees. He cooked up a batch of fear toxin that was dispersible by water and then he dumped it into the water supply. Right now, since he could only move his mouth, and his fingers and toes if he tried, Crane was forced to visualize like some New Age meditation nut all the truly sinister things he could be doing to the Joker. If his one imaginary plan involved a Light Saber, so be it.

"Well, are you back issues of _Wonder Woman_ around here somewhere? Or do you have them in a safe deposit box at the First Bank of Gotham?" The Joker asked.

"I don't read _Wonder Woman_! I don't read comic books at all. I was reading and fully understanding _The Catcher in the Rye_ by the time I was seven, though I had to read up in the attic so my lunatic grandmother wouldn't find out! I never had a comic book phase and the closest thing I have to a comic is the_ Watchmen_ graphic novel, so if you'd like to burn that be my guest!" The Scarecrow said.

"Touchy subject, I see. As much as I love destroying your things, I'll pass on the burning. The Comedian is very close to my heart, and I would hate to kill such a nihilistic harlequin hero." The Joker said.

Having used what sparse energy he had, Crane slumped down and was quiet. The world was spinning like a sadistic carnival ride there was no escape from. Right then, he didn't care if the Joker tried to burn _him_. Scarecrows had to be pretty flammable, after all, with their straw stuffing. He'd just go down like Johnny Cash, into a burning ring of fire and be rid of anymore of this 'living' crap.

"Come on, Spooky, don't pass out. I don't know why you're not crying like a little girl but there's got to be something here that scares you. Harley-pie, get that pizza cutter. If he isn't afraid of it now, he will be soon enough." The Joker said.

Harley retrieved the pizza cutter, but muttered the whole time about how Mister J was lazy and should do his own dirty work every now and then. The Joker patted her on the head as though she was a puppy that had fetched the slippers without eating one of them. Harley forgot all about her grumbling, and beamed at the contact.

Pizza cutters generally weren't sharp, right? Crane tried to remember if he had ever ran his finger over the cutting wheel, and couldn't come up with anything except the grisly fate of the last pizza delivery boy. He didn't expect the blade to be like a samurai sword; after all, kids could use them. If parents were paranoid over the dangers of heavy metal music, there was no way a deadly pizza cutter could slip through the safety net.

As though reading Crane's mind, the Joker ran one of his frighteningly pale and Voldemort-like fingers over the pizza cutter. He spun the little cutting wheel, and frowned. It was about as sharp as a stone after a river had run over it for a few millennia. The Joker could cause Crane more damage by throwing the pizza cutter at him than actually trying to slash him with it.

"Harley, this is a piece of crap."

"Mister J, I didn't make it. Someone gettin' paid ten cents an hour in China did. Tell Mao Zedong about it." Harley responded.

"Who?" The Joker asked.

"Come on, Mister J. If _I_ know who Mao Zedong it, everybody has to." Harley said.

"I didn't know who Voldemort was, and Spooky seems to think _everyone_ knows who he is. Stupid wizards." The Joker said.

"You'd have known too, Puddin', if you'd gone to the movies with me instead of plottin' all night. But no, killin' the Commissioner always comes first." Harley said.

"It wasn't the Commissioner, it was the Attorney General! I can take Gordon out anytime I want. I just don't want to, that's all." The Joker corrected.

"Attorney General, Commissioner, Vice President, yadda-yadda." Harley said.

Crane wished he had been born without ears. His head was all ready swirling like water going down a drain, and the last thing he needed was to hear these deranged lovers argue about Communist China, Harry Potter, and law enforcement agencies.

The Scarecrow was willing to do anything, including pierce his own eardrums, to stop the noise of bickering clowns. He didn't even know where he was seated at the moment, but he figured the floor would be further away from the voices. Maybe the sight of him sliding out of whatever chair he had been propped up in would be enough to get Harley and the Joker to shut their cavernous traps.

Forcing his hands to push against the chair, which was obviously made of wood and not the sofa, Crane managed to get to the edge of his seat. He doubted if the floor would be very welcoming, and he was too weak to brace his fall. Screw it. If knocking his head off the floor was going to be the straw that broke the camel's back and finally killed him, he wasn't going to protest.

A pair of hands, mercifully not pale spider hands, gently pushed on his shoulders. "Watch it, Professor. You were going overboard." Harley said.

"Thank you, child." The Scarecrow said. He tried to sound sarcastic. He failed.

"Yeah, the last thing you wanna do is crack your noggin again. Your brains might come leakin' out your ears or somethin' nasty like that." Harley said.

It was always sad to see a good mind go to waste. Harley, as a shrink, might have had talent. She was one of the few women who had been brave enough to try to unravel the twisted minds of Arkham Asylum's most deranged. Now she talked like the perfect New York stereotype and was the poster child of the dumb blonde. Being too close to the Joker for too long had obviously fried her brain cells, or forced them to commit suicide just to get away.

"If my brains haven't leaked out yet, I doubt if they're going to." The Scarecrow said.

Harley shrugged. "Mister J shot this guy once, and his brains leaked out his forehead. And one time he shot a donut instead of the cop that was eatin' it, and strawberry jelly splattered all over place. The cop thought he'd been shot and the jelly was his brains. Pretty fun, huh, Professor?"

"Only to a sadist, a title I don't apply to myself." Crane said.

The Joker laughed. "I remember that. Good times, good times."

Lovely. First they had been fighting over Red China and evil wizards, and now it was time for a trip down lunatic memory lane. Crane had ridden the short bus long enough; he wanted to get off.

"Where am I?" Crane asked, in an attempt to avoid having to hear about all the people the clownish twosome had slaughtered recently.

"In a chair." The Joker said.

"Where's the chair?" Crane asked.

"Under your butt." Harley said.

"I mean, where in the house is it?" the Scarecrow asked. He knew the Joker was giving him the run around, dodging the question like a veteran politician. Harley was probably just clueless.

"First floor, right underneath a light fixture, due east of a window and slightly south of a spider crawling across the floor." The Joker said.

"I'm going to kill myself." The Scarecrow moaned.

"Harley, go and get that spider! He's got to afraid of that. It's _huge_." The Joker said.

The spider had, up to that point in its few weeks of life, been content to sit in its web and drain the fluid out of whatever happened to become entangled there. Its web had recently been destroyed when the Joker threw one of his shoes through it. The homeless spider had been roaming around the house, searching for a new building site. One its way to a quiet little dark corner, it had the misfortune of choosing the wrong moment to cross the floor.

Harley looked over at the spider, which was unusually large for something not a tarantula or a Goliath bird-eating spider. "Mister J, it's got too many legs. I don't touch anything with more than six. It's got eight."

"But I want it." The Joker said.

"Then _you_ get it. 'Sides, if it's poisonous and bites you, your arm won't turn black and fall off." Harley said.

The Joker approached the spider. It must have had some sort of spider sense that told it evil was heading its way. The arachnid put its eight appendages in gear and headed for the wall. Before it could escape, the clown had it trapped.

"Don't put that spider on me, you bastard." Crane snapped.

"Finally. I was beginning to think the toxin had worn off and I'd have to go find some more." The Joker said.

That nearly stopped Crane's heart dead in his chest. He could not, could not, handle another dose of fear toxin. It would kill him as surely as jumping off the highest building in Gotham straight into rush hour traffic would. He'd just have to pretend to be stupidly frightened of everything, at least until he recovered full use of his arms and legs.

"The itsy bitsy spider went on the Mop Man's head." The Joker sang in a voice that would have made dogs howl and chickens molt.

"I'm serious, keep that spider away from me!" The Scarecrow said.

"Come on, Spooky, why so serious? It's just a big, black, probably venomous spider. It's not _that _scary." The Joker said.

Forcing himself to reject what little pride he managed to hold on to, Crane squirmed in his chair. Of his many problems, arachnophobia was not one of them. Luckily, many of his test subjects had a mortal fear of creepy crawlies. He knew how someone with a spider phobia acted when the creatures came too near.

"I don't bloody like spiders! Get it away from me you psychotic son of a bitch!" Crane said.

"Leave my dear old Mum out of this." The Joker said.

The Clown Prince pitched his captive spider at the Scarecrow. Instead of missing him and landing on the floor, or landing his hair so he could shake it off, the universe—which now hated Crane with a burning passion—demanded the bug slide down his shirt. Eight spindly eggs scratched at his chest. The Scarecrow nearly pitched a fit.

The Scarecrow wriggled like a worm on a hook. The spider was scurrying around inside his shirt, looking desperately for either an exit or a particularly soft and vulnerable place to bite. Crane, for the first time in his life, was deathly afraid he was going to be nipped on the nipple.

"Spider in my shirt. Shit, there's a spider in my shirt!"

The universe, asides from being a sworn enemy of scarecrows, must have loved clowns. The Joker's day hit a new high the second the spider fell into Crane's shirt. This couldn't get any better.

It did get better! All the shaking and wiggling knocked the Scarecrow out of his chair. He hit the floor with a classic belly flop, and continued to squirm. The spider apparently hadn't been squashed in the fall, because Crane was still cursing at it.

Amid a violent torrent of words George Carlin loved dearly, Crane yelped. Just as he had feared, the spider had bitten him. Mercifully, it was not on the nipple.

"It bit me! Damn it, shit!"

Harley was finally kind enough to come to the rescue. She removed her sneaker and began to whack Crane with it. The first six blows struck only him. Finally, on the seventh, she squashed the spider.

The spider was reduced to a pile of green ooze. Harley stuck out her tongue in disgust. Bug guts were even grosser than human guts.

"Mister J, do you think that spider was poisonous?" Harley asked, still holding onto her shoe.

"Of course it was! All spiders are venomous; it's how they hunt! I don't what kind it was, shit, I never took entomology." Crane said.

"Me neither." Harley said.

"I don't even know if I went to school." The Joker said. Then he broke down in a laughing fit.

Crane found himself shaking like a California overpass during a quake. The tremors were partly from the pain brought on by knocking his abused body against the floor. Most of the shaking was pure rage. He had spent the entire day being tortured, and now spider venom from an unknown species was racing around his system. The Joker was laughing about. The Scarecrow was sick and tired of having his misery exploited.

"Stop laughing you bastard! I could be dying right now for all you know, and it's all your fault! I hope the Batman smashes your damn jaw into so many pieces you can never smile again. Then I hope Robin runs you over with the Batmobile! Then I hope Harley dumps you and runs off with the Hatter! I hope they have mad, passionate sex and she sends you pictures! And I hope you-"

It was quite hard to think up violent threats when your front door was kicked in by a man dressed as a bat.

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Author's Notes:

That is going to be the last time I ever mention the Scarecrow's nipples, either. I seriously had to psych myself up to write that.

Borat's brother, Bilo, was kept in a cage. Watch the movie.

REM, or Rapid Eye Movement, is the sleep stage when dreaming occurs.

_The Catcher in the Rye_, by J.D. Salinger, is one book everyone reads in high school. It's also one certain types of folks try year after year to ban. A certain level of maturity or worldly knowledge is necessary to get it.

_Watchmen_ is one of the greatest graphic novels ever. I figure if Crane read one, he'd read that. The Comedian is exactly the way the Joker describes him. He's a nihilistic bastard who smokes cigars and shoots women.

The Johnny Cash song Crane refers to is _Ring of Fire_. Hunt down the lyrics for yourself.

Mao Zedong brought communism to China.

George Carlin is my favorite comedian, and famous for his act "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television".

PS: I don't intend to make you wait a month and some for the next chapter. Sorry, sorry, sorry again!


	15. Duct Tape

I love my reviewers! I positively adore each and every one of you. Thank you!

I'll try to have the next chapter up within 2 weeks.

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Batman might have kicked in the front door with all the bravado of an action movie hero, but he froze as soon as he caught sight of the house's occupants. He had been expecting Crane, and only Crane. After all, not one of the witnesses from the supermarket attack had so much as mentioned the two clowns. They'd all been very adamant in their descriptions: one man, dressed in gray clothing with a sack on his head had been the only assailant. If Harley and the Joker had been involved, they had been inconspicuous. The Joker could not fail to attract attention.

"B-man! Nice to see you again." Harley greeted sweetly.

"Yeah, Bats, long time no see. Been keeping busy? You never know, in this economy, jobs have a way of disappearing. Glad to see the ole Dark Knight's still running around." The Joker said.

There was no way his luck could be this rotten. Crane hadn't done anything bad enough to deserve the day he was getting. Even if he was the reincarnation of Hitler, he might deserve the torment the Joker had inflicted, but the Bat barging into his house was too much.

The man Batman had actually come to see, and drag back to Arkham, was hardly in the picture. Crane looked like he'd all ready had the fight knocked out of him. Though the Caped Crusader was too smart and experienced to neglect watching the Scarecrow, his main concern had to be the Joker and Harley. They were both standing, after all.

"What are you doing here, Joker? Aren't the suburbs a little mundane for your tastes?" Batman asked.

"It's not _my _house. It's Johnny the Mop Man's. He's the male Martha Stewart. He cleans, he cooks, he complains. He's just like a wife, except, well, he couldn't legally be in any place except California." The Joker said.

"Shut up." The Scarecrow muttered. Ah, the joy of two word phrases again.

"Come on, Spooky, it's a compliment. I could never hope to live in such domestic bliss. All my hideouts tend to blow up after a week or two of occupation." The Joker said.

Bruce Wayne had seen some odd partnerships arise among the villains, but this was something new. Crane was, almost without exception, a loner. What had the Joker done, or threatened to do, to get the Scarecrow to accept him as a roommate? Knowing the Joker, it was probably something very painful and highly illegal.

"Any way, Bats, we're not looking to rent out a room, or share the sofa. So, unless you're in the mood to fight the four of us, five if Johnny isn't too concussed, you'd better get your bat butt back out the door." The clown said.

"The four of you? Even with Crane, that's only three. Or do you have some goons hiding in the refrigerator?" Batman asked.

Harley took a deep breath and screamed. "Babies!"

Bud and Lou came barreling down the stairs like the hounds of hell. They both were snarling, their lips pulled back to reveal impressive sets of teeth. When they got the order to kill, they lost all signs of teddy bear sweetness and became the kind of creatures _National Geographic_ loved to feature at every opportunity.

"Get the Bat!" Harley ordered, pointing her finger at the masked vigilante just in case Lou and Bud didn't get the message.

"Bud and Lou, sic balls!" The Joker said. He then broke into a fit of laughter.

Neither hyena paid attention to the Clown Prince's command, because they both knew he was a moron. There was no good reason to attack the prey's crotch. Especially not in this case, because the prey had armor in that region. A lot of armor.

The hyenas circled Batman, waiting for an opening. They were veterans of skirmishes with the Bat, and Bud and Lou knew how much it hurt to be punched in the jaw with a Kevlar-covered fist. They weren't going to rush in and get their stubby little tails torn off.

While the hyenas provided plenty of distraction, Crane began to pull himself across the floor. He realized with disdain he'd spent more time on crawling today than he had since he was a toddler. He felt like something that had crawled out of the sea too early, without bothering to evolve knees first.

Harley cheered on her two brave Babies, and expected her man to be equally supportive. However, there were no excited cries encouraging the hyenas to bite off a bat body part. Maybe that was because the Joker had fled the scene.

"Mister J! Where'd you go? You gotta root for the family!" Harley cried.

The Joker popped up like a whack-a-mole target from behind the sofa. "Keep your socks on, Harl. I'm looking for my gun. I can't remember where I put it."

"Did it fall between the cushions, like the remote always does?" Harley said.

The Joker smacked himself in the face. Of course! Crane had a remote control eating couch, instead of a kite-eating tree. Since the TV had been destroyed by gunfire, the hungry sofa hadn't been able to eat the remote lately. The devious furniture obviously decided to be opportunistic, and eat whatever was at hand. The buggering thing must have devoured his weapon.

Sure enough, wedged between the couch cushions, was his gun. Grinning, the Joker pulled it free and pointed it at the bat.

"Say bye-bye, Batsy!" The clown taunted.

Batman turned just in time to see the Joker pull the trigger. Instead of the bang, or the little joke flag that said "bang", there was only an empty click. Confused, the Joker pulled the trigger a few more times, and was rewarded with the same click.

"You imbecile. You never reloaded the damned thing after killing the television." Crane said.

"Oops. Oh well. I guess I'll have to go to plan B." The Joker said.

"There's a plan B? What is it, Puddin'?" Harley asked.

"You stay here and fight the Bat, while I run for it!"

Laughing at the staggering genius of his plan, the Joker ran for the back door. Batman wasn't about to let the most evil clown this side of Derry get away. As much as PETA would scream and demand his blood for it, Batman had no choice but to get rough with the hyenas. He kicked Lou when the hyena darted forward to bite at his foot, only to have Bud take advantage of the opportunity and grab a mouthful of the hero's cape.

With all the tenacity of a pit bull, Bud locked his jaws onto the black fabric. He could no longer do much in the way of fighting, but the Bat wasn't going anywhere fast with 130 pounds of dead weight hanging onto him. Harley, who had thrown herself at Lou even though he didn't appear hurt in the least from the blow, encouraged Bud to chew off Batman's ears.

"Get off!" Batman commanded. Bud growled at him and dug his claws into the linoleum.

The cloth Batman's cape was made of was fire retardant, light, and extremely durable. It hadn't been made to stand up to the 1000 pounds of force Bud's jaws were capable of producing, though. Eventually, the cape tore and Bud was left with a tattered piece of fabric. Bruce took the opportunity to propel himself at the retreating clown's cowardly back. He'd have to worry about Alfred patching the cape later.

The Joker was inches from escaping when the Batman slammed into him. Seconds after that, Bud and Lou flung themselves at the hero's back. He was pushed against the Joker, who was in turn plastered against the door and flattened considerably.

"I. Can't. Breathe." The Joker gasped.

"If you can talk, you can breathe." The Batman responded. He opened his mouth, doubtlessly to say something stupid and self righteous the Joker was going to ignore anyway, only to be jerked backwards. Bud had once again gotten his chompers in the diminished cape and was pulling for all he was worth.

Crane had reached the cellar door. Like the aliens in an M. Night Shyamalan film, he was having trouble with the door knob. Grasping the door knob, and turning it, was proving to be more difficult than beating the Riddler at Trivial Pursuit.

"You kept a 4.0 grade point average through medical school, and you're going to be defeated by a door knob? What happened to your brains? Did they turn to straw?" Crane berated himself.

Self-depreciation proved to be the key. The Scarecrow was able to get the door open, and then find himself faced with the monstrous dilemma in front of him. Just how in the hell did he intend to get down the stairs? Was he going to slide on his tummy like a penguin or an otter?

The Scarecrow looked down, and realized nineteen steps had never been so scary. There were a millions way this could go wrong. He could break any number of bones if he fell, snap his neck, his back, end up paralyzed or dead. Crane had learned a great deal about the cruel whims of hap lately; he wouldn't doubt, not for one second, that his uneventful death at the bottom of the stairs wasn't a grave possibility.

"Coward. It's just stairs. That centenarian from the grocery store probably lives on the tenth floor of the retirement home and considers the elevator a demon. Are you going to let a fossil do what you can't?"

Climbing the stairs still looked as frightening as scaling the outside of the Petronas Towers. Apparently, Crane was going to have to get nastier with himself.

"What kind of villain is afraid of _stairs_? You're more pathetic and less deserving of fear than Killer Moth." The Scarecrow said.

Being wimpier than Killer Moth, who was about as frightening as low-calorie diet Jell-o, encouraged Crane to at least grab hold of the banister and haul himself to his feet. He swayed dangerously, nearly toppled forward, and ended up wrapping his arms around the rail and whimpering. At least if he was Killer Moth, he'd have the Boba Fett-like jetpack and wouldn't have to worry about breaking his legs going downstairs.

"Fool. Weakling. Stupid git. _Nerd_."

That was the magic word. Still hugging the banister as though it was the only thing that kept him from defying gravity and floating off into the sun, Crane began a slow and painful descent. Taking it one step at a time, he was able to make it half way down the stairs before he lost his grip and fell on his ass.

"Damn it!" The Scarecrow growled. It felt like his tailbone had been jammed up into his neck. Times like this made him wish he had an actual ass, like most people, that could offer even meager protection in a fall. Once again, being a scrawny stick figure of a villain was a major drawback.

Wincing at the matching pain in his head and in his butt, Crane forced himself back to his feet. Upstairs, he heard something crash to the ground hard enough to rattle the entire house. By the sound of it, the refrigerator had just capsized. After all the misery he had endured to steal a half ton of food, the fridge was destroyed. The Scarecrow believed he had just surpassed every citizen of North Korea and had become the most wretched thing on the planet.

"My Chocolate Therapy! Okay, B-man, now you asked for it!" Harley screamed.

Crane smirked. Hell hath no fury like a woman without her chocolate ice cream. If the Bat had any brains, he'd scurry back to his Batmobile like the winged vermin that he was, before Harley ate her Ben and Jerry's out of his hollow skull.

More things crashed above his head. There was a splintering noise, and Crane assumed one of the kitchen chairs had just been reduced to kindling. He managed down another step before something far heavier than a chair, likely the table, was destroyed. The Scarecrow could only hope the table hadn't been ruined when Harley was thrown onto it. If the Joker had been used as a wrecking ball, Crane could live perfectly well with that.

With the continued support of the banister, the Scarecrow was finally able to make it to the basement floor. His lab mice began to squeak in what Crane interpreted as anger. He supposed even something so small could learn to hold a grudge, if it was tormented long enough.

The mice gave Crane an idea. Plenty of people were afraid of mice, rats, and other members of the rodent family. A bat, known to most people as a rat with wings even though bats were not related to rodents in the least, might just have a little phobia of his own. Certainly, if Crane could poison his latest uninvited guest and manage to slip an irate lab mouse into his suit, that would provide plenty of time for him to crawl back up the stairs. If Harley was still conscious, she would certainly assist him in escaping.

Moving like the Frankenstein monster if the Frankenstein monster had just been beaten over the head with a nail-studded club, Crane got to the table that supported the mouse cage. The little white mice squealed it what was certainly panic now. His image, and the fear associated with it, must have been imprinted on the primitive mousey brains.

"Ready to crawl up some more pants?" Crane asked the mice. They all scurried over to one side of the cage, stepping over and on each other in panic.

The Scarecrow opened the cage and stuck his hand inside. Upon further examination, he came to realize it was a stupid move. Several mice, all sick and tired of being poked, prodded, and gassed, had their vengeance.

His fingers bleeding from a half-dozen mouse bites, Crane yanked his hand back. He pulled his wounded hand up to his chest, and glared at the mice. The pink-eyed albino bastards needed their pound of flesh too, did they? So help him, he was going to put the mice in a box, put a bowtie on the box, and give it to Catwoman as an apology gift.

Crane left the cage door open, hoping the mice would emerge on their own and flood the basement like the Egyptian plague of frogs, only with less slime and more bucked teeth. He wrapped his smarting hand in the bottom of his shirt, and then began to kvetch when he realized his only remaining shirt was now blood-stained. Stupid mice. Next time he was going to experiment on something that couldn't gnaw on him, like old people or goldfish.

Terrorizing the retirement home worse than a shortage of prune juice would have to wait. Right now, there was a giant flying pest in serious need of swatting. The Scarecrow had to find a canister of fear toxin before the Batman noticed he was gone. If he was unarmed, hurt as he was, he wouldn't be able to so much as punch at Batman. All he'd be able to do was lie down on the floor and curl up like a pill bug whose rock had just been overturned.

If all the commotion—swearing, barking, snarling, crashing, and unnatural laughter—was any indication, the Bat was still plenty occupied with the clowns and hyenas. Even for a masked avenger with obvious control issues and powerful fists, the Joker family, if such a mélange of freaks and critters could be labeled a family, had to be a resilient opponent. They might even be able to subdue Batman and kill him, though Crane never expected his luck to be that good.

"I hope that clown didn't molest my fear toxin. If he did, I'll kill him. Who am I trying to kid? He'll laugh in my face and then beat me with the nearest available toilet plunger, miscreant that he is." Crane said.

The universe, which had long ago stolen all of Crane's luck and locked it away, allowed a few wisps of kindness to grace him. The Joker hadn't destroyed the Scarecrow's frighteningly extensive stores of poison. He had obviously ruffled through a few of the caches, while Crane had either been shopping or unconscious. The clown hadn't been able or motivated enough to search out and juggle with all the canisters, though.

Shuffling along like an old woman with a bad hip, the Scarecrow eventually got to the table that held a majority of his network of tubes and beakers. He crouched down under the table, and yanked at the underside of it. After some tussling and swearing, Crane emerged victorious. In his hand sat a ball of duct tape. Inside that duct tape cocoon, somewhere, there was a canister of fear toxin.

In Crane's opinion, whoever invented duct tape should have been awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. He severely disliked being tied up with duct tape, but throughout his life and career, he had discovered a million and three uses for the magic silver tape. Need to stick something to a table? Duct tape! Test subject won't shut his trap and the walls are thinner than anticipated? Duct tape! Fight with the Bat ended badly and that injury is _really_ bleeding? Duct tape!

Even without the pseudo-medicinal properties of duct tape, it truly was a spectacular invention. Wistfully nostalgic about all the times duct tape had come through for him, the Scarecrow began the process of peeling his poison free from the cocoon. Maybe, in his enthusiasm for both his fear toxin and his favorite tape, he had overdone it a little.

Back upstairs, the party was still in full swing. While Bud and Lou kept Batman busy, the Joker hunted around the living room like a Niffler on the trail of something shiny. The clown was willing to bet money, not his money, maybe Harley's, that there were spare bullets within five feet of him. Problem was, he couldn't find them. Living the relaxed life of a mooch, he hadn't needed to shoot anything except the television. Now he couldn't reload his damn gun. The NRA was going to be sorely disappointed in its most aggressive and public member.

"Harley! Where're my magazines?" The Joker asked.

"Now ain't the time for _Jugs_!" Harley said.

"My_ gun _magazines!"

"_Guns & Ammo_ has to wait, too!"

"I mean the goddamn magazines that hold bullets for my empty gun! Harley, I'm going to lobotomize you!"

"Oh! Did you try your coat pockets?" Harley suggested.

"They aren't going to… Wait a second. Thanks Harl, you can keep your frontal lobe after all!"

If Batman didn't have enough problems with Bud and Lou, who had effectively reduced his cape to half its original size, the Joker with a loaded weapon was the last thing he needed. Fighting in the streets and alleys of Gotham City, where there was room to dodge gunfire, was one thing. Fighting in the kitchen of a suburban house with nothing except the table to use as a shield was far more dangerous.

"Let's try this again." The Joker said.

At the first explosion of gunfire, Crane nearly leapt cleanly out of his skin. The fun and games were apparently over upstairs. Batman and the Joker were getting down to the nitty-gritty business of thrashing each other senseless.

After two more gunshots, and no heavy thud that would signal a body falling wounded to the floor, the Scarecrow began to wonder exactly what options he had. If the Bat was killed, as unlikely as that seemed, what would the Joker do? Celebrate? Mourn? Blow up the Batmobile and dance around the fire like a worshipper of Pele? If Batman, as in nearly all past encounters with Harley and the Joker, trounced them soundly and shipped them back to the loony bin, where would that leave Crane? Hog-tied in the back of the Batmobile, most likely.

Either way, Crane didn't think his life would improve significantly. With Batman dead, the Joker would become even more unpredictable and spastic. He probably wouldn't leave, but would insist the Scarecrow help him stuff Batman's corpse so it could be hung on the wall as a trophy. Locked up in Arkham, Crane had nothing to look forward to except Rorschach blots that looked vaguely like people being mauled by pissed off sea horses and food African refugees would politely but vehemently refuse.

For the Scarecrow, there never was an easy way out. It was just his luck.

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That was faster, huh? Yay!

Author's Notes:

Yes, I know California no longer allows gay marriage. The Joker wouldn't exactly be on top of the news, though.

The Kite-Eating Tree is from _Peanuts_, and it is a tree that eats kites.

Derry is the fictional town that was home to the _It_ monster.

The 1,000 pound hyena bite force came from a National Geographic study.

In the M. Night Shyamalan film _Signs_, the aliens could make their spaceships invisible but had trouble opening a door…

A Niffler is a creature from _Harry Potter_. It is a furry creature the size of a small dog that madly loves shiny objects. Consult _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_.

Pele is the Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes.


	16. Just a Flesh Wound!

Thanks for the reviews! Ninety-freaking-four. I never thought I'd see that number. Hey, you guys suppose you can bump me up to 100? Please!

the person watching you sleep: yeah, getting the weirdest possible references is pretty much my goal.

I'll do all in my power to update soon.

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The kitchen had been turned into a shooting gallery. In the confined space, Harley and the hyenas found themselves as targets for stray and ricocheting bullets. One particularly close call actually burned hair from the end of Lou's tail and sent the mutt yipping and crying into Harley's arms.

"Mister J, you're supposed to be shootin' at the big black bat!" Harley yelled.

The Joker took his eyes off Batman long enough to glare at Harley. In that split second, Batman had a batarang in his hand and was taking careful aim at the Joker's gun. Harley grabbed the nearest object—it turned out to be a skillet knocked from a cupboard in the fight—and flung it with all her strength. Batman had to leap out of the way of the killer frying pan, and the Joker avoided having his weapon knocked from his hand.

"Keep your eyes on the Bat!" Harley scolded.

"What are you, my batting coach? Shut up and throw some more kitchenware!"

Harley looked desperately around her for something heavy enough to cause damage even through Batman's armor. She spotted the toaster, but that was on the counter and across the kitchen. Close by, there didn't seem to be anything scarier than the lousy pizza cutter that couldn't hurt a hemophiliac kitten.

Now the wiser, and not willing to give the Bat a second respite, the Joker opened fire again. Bruce had no intention of visiting the morgue that particular night, so he took cover. There was limited space, so he had no choice but to duck behind the overturned refrigerator. As soon as he was concealed, he heard a bullet whizz off the fridge's metal body.

The Joker wasted several more shots on the refrigerator. The bullets were obviously not going to pierce the appliance, but only Harley was smart enough to see this.

"Indiana Jones hid in a fridge and survived gettin' nuked! You ain't gonna flush out the Batman by wastin' ammo." Harley said.

"Then what do you suggest? If you're just going to criticize me, you'd better have some plan." The Joker growled, shooting the scarred refrigerator out of frustration.

"Do we have any grenades?" Harley asked.

"No. They all went up in the old hideout. Don't you remember that big boom?" The Joker replied.

"Okay, no grenades then." Harley said.

With high explosives out of the picture, Harley desperately needed something to bombard the Bat with. The only things she could see were utterly innocuous: a red and blue plaid potholder, the toilet plunger, and the can of okra. Maybe, if she could get Batman to eat the okra he might be struck with explosive diarrhea or something. Harley didn't have a food catapult handy, though, so using the vegetable as a biological weapon was pretty much eliminated.

"The hairballs." The Joker said.

"Mister J, be reasonable. I can't believe I just said that! Bud and Lou weigh a ton, and I ain't exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger." Harley said.

"I don't mean actually throw them! I mean tell them to attack! They'll either scare the big bad Bat out, or they'll eat his face off. I don't really care which." The clown replied hotly.

Bud and Lou looked ready for more action. With Harley's command, they eagerly rushed the refrigerator and the man who hid behind it. Batman peeked over the top of the fridge, took one look at the furry duo heading his way, and wished he'd brought a string of sausages or something to distract the hyenas with. Since he hadn't come prepared for animal warfare, he supposed he'd just have to punch the mutts until they got the message and backed off.

Batman had the great disadvantage of not being able to raise his head above the fridge, unless he wanted to be able to chew gum through his forehead. Bud seemed to have developed and obsessive compulsion for the heavily chewed cape, and went straight for it. There really wasn't enough of the cape left to share, so Lou took his teeth to Batman's boot. Like a dog playing tug of war with a stick, he began to pull Batman from behind the fridge.

The Joker cheered. "Harley, those are some smart mutts you have there. I'm glad I never called animal control on them. Pull harder, you mangy stumps or I'll have you made into glue!"

"Mister J, they don't make hyena glue. Oh, and next time the Babies steal your fuzzy clown slippers, don't come cryin' to me to get 'em back." Harley said.

Everything from the knee down was now exposed. Batman had no intention of getting shot, so, once again shaking the image of a naked vegetarian smacking him with a protest sign out of his head, he committed animal abuse. While Lou yanked and nibbled on his left foot, he drove his free right foot into the hyena's snout. Lou yelped in pain, and was forced to let go.

The hyena backed away, blood dripping slowly from his snout. He shook his head, sending more droplets of blood spattering against the linoleum floor. The trickle of blood wasn't much worse than the average spontaneous nosebleed some people were susceptible to. Harley's outraged cry suggested half of Lou's face had been kicked off and his brain was visible.

Forgetting about keeping low and well away from the line of fire, Harley rushed across the kitchen. On her way, she grabbed a chair leg from the recently ruined furniture. One end was splintered, and might have been useful if she was planning to do battle with the likes of Lestat or Spike, or some other fanged menace. Since the wood had zero chance of getting through Batman's impressive body armor, Harley just intended to use it as a bludgeon and see how much he liked a nice chair leg to the facial region.

The Joker always loved it when Harley went into a homicidal rage. He found it drop-dead sexy. It was his personal belief that a woman's level of attractiveness increased the more times she beat someone into a coma. If Hollywood would just give starlets machine guns or machetes instead of plastic boobs, the Joker would be content to never leave the movie theater. He'd just stare, and stare, and do things that got Pee-wee Herman into trouble.

"Get out of the way, Bud!" Harley ordered.

Bud, who had been snacking on Batman's cape, took one look at Harley and spit out the black fabric. When the matriarch bared her teeth, it was time to listen. Keeping his eyes downcast so Harley wouldn't unleash wrath on him, Bud scurried out of the way.

"Nobody but nobody hits my Babies!" Harley said.

If not for the armor of his suit, Batman was sure Harley's blow would have shattered his arm. Acting as though she was possessed by the spirit of an extremely pissed-off Babe Ruth, Harley swung her makeshift club with enough force to crush a watermelon. Inside his suit, Batman was feeling quite like the juicy pulp of said unfortunate melon. If his protection didn't hold up, or Harley smashed that splintery chair leg into his face, Bruce knew the outcome wouldn't be pretty.

The Joker wished he had an over-priced beer, one of those giant foam hands with "We're #1" painted on it, and some popcorn. Watching Harley swing for the fences, or the Bat's nose, was about eighty-million times better than the last baseball game he had attended. Really, after five and a half scoreless innings, could anyone blame him for throwing a live grenade onto the field? Certainly not. If anything, he had done the public a great service.

"Come on, Harley! Are you going to whack him, or tickle him? I bet Bat-breath is hardly feeling it!"

Judging by the thud, which the Scarecrow heard clearly even down in the basement, Harley had no intentions of tickling. Crane wished he could be upstairs, just so he could see exactly what was going on up there. Down here, he had nothing to do but wait and strain his ears. Oh, and scratch at himself. It seemed he was developing a rash or something around that spider bite. Wishing he had some aloe, Crane succumbed to the itch's demand and scratched it.

"Note to self: invent fear toxin that drives spiders insane and then kills them." Crane said. He then scratched at his chest again.

Feeling like he had mistakenly walked through a poison sea urchin cove and come out covered in the spiny devils, the Scarecrow once again scratched. The itch wasn't so bad he needed to squirm around on a cactus to relieve it, but it had to be at least as irritating as chicken pox. The more Crane tried to assuage the itch, the more potent it became.

"I hate spiders! I hate them!" the Scarecrow growled. "From now on, when I see them, I'm going to step on them!"

While Crane plotted revenge against the eight-legged offenders, Harley found herself in a bit of a situation. Batman, being too rude to just hold still and let a lady beat him to death like a nice guy would, had decided to fight back. When Harley swung the chair leg, the Bat caught the end of it. She was genuinely surprised to find her weapon ripped from her hands and thrown across the room.

"Uh, no hard feelings, right B-man?" Harley asked nervously.

Hoping the Joker wouldn't risk shooting Harley and losing his bed-warmer, Batman rose from the relative safety of the refrigerator. He wore a scowl even Professor Snape would have had trouble mimicking. Harley's pigtails drooped. B-man apparently _did_ have hard feelings about it.

"Harley, stop cowering and get out of the way!" The Joker said.

The blonde threw herself to the ground and covered her head with her hands. She looked like a soldier in a foxhole who expected an artillery shell to land on him at any second. The gunshot wasn't quite as loud as a bomb going off, but it was potentially just as lethal.

If not for the Kevlar armor, Batman would have been as dead as Steller's sea cow. The Joker's aim had been dead on. For a freakish clown, he was a regular gunslinger.

Despite what action movies suggested, bullet-proof vests and body armor didn't make a man completely immune to everything from handguns to laser-cannons. Even with the highly advanced armor of the Batsuit, Bruce would be sure to find a bruise the size of a golf ball on his chest in the morning. Luckily, a bruise would heal. A gaping hole in his heart would not.

"Next time I buy armor-piercing rounds. Can't be that hard to find on the black market. If they sell kidneys, they damn well better sell me some decent ammo!" The Joker said.

"Aim for the head! Ain't you ever seen _Night of the Living Dead_?" Harley said.

"No, but I did see _Shaun of the Dead_." The Joker replied.

"Same principle, Puddin'." Harley said.

Batman was not going to stick around and get shot in the head like a zombie. He couldn't make it to the living room, where'd he have the couch and some other sparse furniture to hide behind. His only real option was to see where the door just feet away led. He was quite sure the Scarecrow had dragged his pitiful self through the portal, but Batman would rather have to face one heavily damaged villain than two crazy clowns and their laughing pets.

With all the finesse of a wrecking ball, Batman plowed through the door. He had had no idea as to what sort of room he was about to come bursting into. A part of him had anticipated a broom closet or a coat room. Certainly, it wasn't totally out of the realm of possibility for Crane to drag himself into an enclosed space; his poison would be more concentrated there.

Instead of a closet, Batman found stairs leading down. A basement. He hated fighting in basements. Most basements were poorly lit, offered only one route of escape, and were filled with junk collections. There were dozens, sometimes hundreds, of places for an ambush to come from. Cellars, in their own way, could be every bit as dangerous as a villain's usual booby trapped lair.

Bruce didn't have time to stand at the lip of the stairs and grumble about how much it genuinely sucked to do battle in a cellar. A bullet bored through the door, and missed his ear by inches. Even shooting blind, the Joker would be bound to hit him eventually.

"Please, Scarecrow, be unconscious." Batman prayed. He then descended the steps, taking them three at a time.

Crane was not unconscious; in fact, he was feeling better than he had in hours. Upon hearing the door bang, roughly two liters of adrenaline had flooded his system. That chemical burst effectively tramped down the pain he felt everywhere, at least temporarily. His body was practically strumming like a live wire. The Scarecrow was as ready as he was ever going to be for the approaching confrontation.

"I don't like it when people invite themselves into my lab. Not. One. Bit."

"Your kitchen's a little too hostile for my tastes." Batman replied.

"You're not anymore welcome down here." Crane said.

Batman looked around the basement uneasily. He disliked fighting in cellars; he hated fighting in chemical plants even more. Judging from the beakers, tubes, and scientific instruments, this room was both. A knock-down brawl could certainly end with a fire, explosion, or horrible disfigurement for him, the Scarecrow, or both of them.

"I'm not leaving three of the most dangerous criminals in Gotham loose in the suburbs." The Bat said.

"Take the Joker, by all means. Don't even think about laying one hand on me." Crane replied.

"Why is the Joker here? Is he the reason you look like you've been through a meat grinder?" Batman asked.

The Scarecrow suddenly looked as though he was going to explode as extravagantly as Krakatau. His hands clenched into fists, and Batman began to seriously worry he was going to accidentally set off the canister he was surely crushing.

"That clown! I hate him! Don't even say his name in my presence!" Crane yelled.

"Calm down, Crane. I don't want to fight a man in your condition." Batman said.

"Condition? I have no _condition_ you need to be concerned about." The Scarecrow said.

Batman took a good look at his adversary and sighed. "Have you ever seen _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_?"

That statement was so random all the anger evaporated from Crane's face and was replaced with blank confusion. "What are you talking about, Batman? Have you been experimenting with prescription drugs?"

"The Black Knight, I'm sure a man of your intelligence knows this skit, is dueling King Arthur. Arthur cuts off the Knight's arms, but the Knight insists it's just a flesh wound. Do you understand what I'm getting at, Crane?"

The Scarecrow threw his arms into the air, and Batman was sure the canister of fear toxin was going to go flying. "Yes, go on and cut my arms off. I'll never be put in a straightjacket again, at least. I suppose I can always play the pity angle to a grand jury. 'How could I have done such a thing, I haven't got any arms.'"

"No, that wasn't what I meant. I'm saying that you're bloodied, disheveled, and look like you haven't had a decent night's sleep since last October. It looks like a toddler could take you down, yet you still want to fight. I know you don't want to hear this, but Arkham is the best place for you right now." Batman said.

"Get out of my face before I cut yours off and feed it to the Babies. I mean the hyenas." Crane snapped.

"I'm not leaving you here. You're a danger to the community. Maybe not as dangerous as the Joker, but I'll deal with him later." The Bat said.

"If you think I'll ever come quietly, you're more insane than I am. Make one move, you flying rat, and I'll make your worst dreams come true."

"I do not want to see you in a full-body cast."

"Ah, but I'd love to see you writhing around on the ground like a worm. Really, after all I've endured today, it's the least you could do for me. I'll even promise to give you the antidote. After an hour or two, at least."

Batman could have knocked his head off a cement wall. For a man whose IQ damn near broke the scale, sometimes Jonathan Crane was a complete idiot. The Dark Knight's job was to protect Gotham, not to beat up men who were already on their last legs. The Scarecrow either didn't realize or didn't care that one more whack might just be too much.

"Be sensible. You don't even have your mask. There's a chance you'll end up poisoning yourself, Crane. You aren't going to risk that, are you?"

With all the nonchalance of a man deciding what snack to pack, the Scarecrow shrugged. "I'll take the risk if I must. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"How can someone so smart be so stupid?" Batman asked in exasperation.

"I don't know, Batsy, I've been trying to figure that one out for the past week. Maybe, if we put our heads together, and dissect his brain, we'll find out all the great mysteries to life."

Batman whirled around to find the Joker standing at the top of the stairs. While he and Crane had been arguing, he hadn't heard the cellar door open. Now he was perfectly trapped between a very irrational Scarecrow and a gun-toting clown. Sometimes, even for superheroes, it just didn't pay to get out of bed in the morning.

Not fair! It just wasn't fair! Crane didn't want to characterize himself as a whiner, but there were some curveballs the universe threw that even a stoic couldn't be expected to endure in silence. Having his two least favorite people in the entire planet trapped in the basement with him was one of those trick pitches.

"Just remember, Bats, no sudden movements. You might provoke me, and even a blind man couldn't miss at this range. Oh, and don't bother trying to get past me. Harley and the mutts are waiting on the other side of the door. I'd tell you what kind of weapon she found, but it would ruin the surprise." The Joker said, positively giddy with excitement.

The clown descended a few stairs, so that now Crane could at least see his shoes and a few inches of purple pants. Batman tensed visibly, but didn't make a move. The Joker was right; at less than fifteen feet, he'd have no trouble putting a bullet in Batman's unprotected face.

Confident in his threats, the Joker skipped down half the steps. He was now entirely visible to Crane, and nearly in grabbing and beating range to Batman. The clown knew this, and kept his weapon carefully trained on the vigilante. One little twitch of the cape, and the Bat was buried.

"Not too smart a move, eh, Bat-brains? I bet you didn't know that door led down to the Mop Man's _secret laboratory_." The Joker mocked.

"You aren't invited down here either, clown. Piss off." The Scarecrow said.

The gun swung from the Bat to the mad scientist. "Spooky, unless you want to study what it feels like to get shot in the foot, shut up."

Turning the weapon back to its original target, the Joker said, "Don't pay any attention to him. The Scarecrow has issues; he had a very sad childhood, someone barbequed his dog, his father never hugged him, etcetera."

"Shut up about my childhood!"

"One more peep out of you, Straw-head, and I'll light you on fire and use you as a tiki torch." The Joker said.

Crane looked about as happy as a skunk that had spent six hours trapped in a muddy hole. In a move Batman had never before seen, but the Joker had, the Scarecrow flipped the giggling clown off. In the past 24 hours, Crane supposed he had given his middle finger more exercise than in the all the rest of his life.

"And that's why nobody pays attention to you. You're a failure." The Joker said.

"I am not a failure!"

"All right, I won't say you're a disgraceful failure. What's the politically correct term nowadays? Success-challenged?"

"I've succeeded plenty of times!"

"You couldn't even follow a shopping list. I should have given it to the hyenas. They'd have done a better job."

As though Batman wasn't even there, Crane and the Clown Prince continued to insult each other. After hearing the words 'molested a bag of innocent spuds' come from the Joker, Bruce considered walking away and seeing if either member of the mad party even noticed he was gone. When he took a step, the Joker cocked his gun and the Scarecrow tightened his grip on the metallic canister.

Barring a miracle, it looked like he was going to be there a long, long time.

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Author's Notes: In _The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_, Indiana Jones gets in a lead-lined fridge and is tossed roughly a mile by an atomic bomb. It gave rise to the phrase "nuking the fridge".

Spike and Lestat are both vamps. Spike's from _Buffy_, and Lestat is from several of Anne Rice's books.

Paul Reubens, the man who played Pee-wee, was arrested for diddling himself in a porno-theater.

Nobody out-scowls Snape. Ever!

Steller's sea cow was a relative of the manatee but much larger. It was hunted to extinction. Very sad!

_Shaun of the Dead_ is a romantic comedy: with zombies. Brilliant movie if you like humor or horror. I figure the Joker would enjoy it immensely, because it's both gory and hilarious.

Talking to the Internet-community, I know there's no need to explain _Monty Python_.


	17. The Common Toaster

One hundred and three reviews! You guys went above and beyond the call of this author. Hugs for all!

Theatre-gypsy: You got the _Inglourious Basterds _reference! Extra hugs for you!

Kateye13: Just wanted to let you know, you were lucky 100. Gracias.

Thanks so much to everyone, new and old, who reviewed.

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"Hey, Johnny, I think the Bat's getting impatient. He doesn't want to hear us squabbling like petty teenage girls, does he? No, I don't think so." The Joker said.

Batman desperately wished he hadn't taken that step. His one movement had been enough to get Crane and the Joker from snapping at each other like dogs and focused on the real enemy in the room. The two lunatics obviously didn't like each other at all, but they both had to despise him worse.

"I see you're right for once, clown. I suppose the Bat came all this way for a fight, and it wouldn't be gentlemanly to send him away without one." Crane said.

"Nothing like a knock-down, drag-out slug-fest with my favorite flying rat to get the old ticker pumping. Woo-hoo!"

The Scarecrow almost frowned at the Joker's abject eagerness. He was like one of those little white puffballs that never stopped yapping, and could chase its own tail for hours on end. It really was quite sickening to be so close to a man with such boundless psychotic energy. Though the sudden burst of adrenaline certainly made Crane feel better, compared to the Joker, he was still one step from being a zombie.

There was no way, despite the Joker's savage glee, the clown would dare have a fair fistfight. Batman had more than enough experience, and scars, to know the Joker's fighting style involved as little physical contact as possible, and as many exploding chickens, cigars, smiling grenades, and flowers containing twisted nerve gas as one clown could carry. The lunatic's coat had a pile of pockets for a reason.

"What tricks do you have up your sleeves?" The Bat asked.

The Joker feigned innocence about as well as Crane played full-contact rugby. "You wound me, Batsy. When have I ever not fought fair? Not counting all those times I threatened nuns, tried to grind your feline friend into cat food, or threw Harley at you and ran away."

"I could stand here all day and site examples, Joker. You're a snake in the grass." Batman said.

"Well, if you're just going to insult me, I'll stop playing nice. And as for my glorious purple sleeves…" The Joker trailed off.

Crane barely had time to jerk his hand out of the path of a razor-edged playing card. The devious card, a joker of course, imbedded itself firmly in the table. The Scarecrow had to bring his hand up to his face and wiggle his fingers before he was satisfied none of them had been chopped off. He had come within bare inches of being maimed, and he was not pleased about it.

"You nearly cut my fingers off! How the hell could you miss the Bat? He's three times wider than I am!" The Scarecrow yelled.

"It's a playing card, not a guided missile. Honestly, sometimes you have to sacrifice a little accuracy for art." The Joker said.

"Let Munch worry about art and Von Braun worry about missiles!" Crane snapped.

"I'll pretend I know who either of those people is. Now, stop whining and do something. Like get out of the way!" The Joker said.

The Scarecrow didn't need to be told twice. He backed away as quickly as possible, never taking his eyes off the Bat. Though he was loath to admit to it, Crane was smart enough to know he was the weak link in the line. If Batman was going to throw his considerable armor-plated weight at someone, it was going to be at the most breakable man. Once more, the Scarecrow cursed whatever sinister genetics gave him a coat hanger-thin frame.

"Come on, Johnny-boy! I've chased old ladies that moved faster than you!" The Joker taunted.

Never mind that it was the Joker's fault he had to shuffle like an arthritic geriatric. The Scarecrow imagined Killer Croc eating off the Joker's head in one monstrous bite. He couldn't help but grin, and he desperately hoped the grin looked evil and not cheerfully goofy. When you were fantasizing about a lizard-man, or a man-lizard, or whatever Croc was nibbling on the skull of your hated houseguest, you wanted to look frightening and not completely sane while you did it.

With old Straw-and-Bones out of the way, the Joker was finally able to commence the card-throwing. He wasn't particularly worried about Crane's physical wellbeing; if he had been, he wouldn't exactly have electrocuted, strangled, poisoned, or otherwise tortured the mad doctor. It was just that the Joker had never actually seen the Bat under the effects of fear toxin, and was madly curious. For a nerd with his nose in the books, the Scarecrow did have one shining achievement.

Batman was too quick and agile for card tricks. He dodged the first three untraditional blades, and managed to actually catch the fourth. The Joker booed like a drunken college frat boy whose favorite football team was losing badly.

"That's not how you're supposed to play! Why can't you be an easy target for once?" The Joker demanded.

"I don't play according to your rules." Batman replied.

"Bah! Rules are for chumps, cops, and nerds. Any good clown knows the secret to life is keeping it random. If you don't spice it up, life is boring! Do you know how easily I get bored?" The Joker asked.

"Yes." Batman said.

"Then don't just stand there, entertain me!" The Joker said.

The clown was done with card tricks. He switched back to the gun, which, mercifully for Crane, he could aim much better. Batman might have been quick, but he wasn't Ozymandias. There was no way for him to catch a bullet as he had the finely honed playing card.

Hoping Crane wouldn't be startled into turning the basement into a gas chamber, Batman dove under a test-tube laden table. The Joker, utterly clueless as to what the various glass beakers and tubes contained, fired at the fleeing vigilante. The Scarecrow howled in horror as glass shattered and assorted chemicals dripped from their ruined containers, mingling together on the table and the floor.

"Stop blowing holes in my lab equipment! You don't know how those chemicals will react with each other! You fool, stop shooting!" Crane yelled.

The Scarecrow's voice was drowned out by rapid gunfire. He might as well have tried to shout on the summit of an erupting Mount Saint Helens. Even if the Joker had heard Crane's distressed words, he would certainly have ignored them.

Wisps of smoke were beginning to rise from the chemical soup. Crane knew that when things started smoking, it normally didn't take long for them to ignite. He was all too aware of how bad the air quality was about to get in the closed confines of the basement.

The smoke, which was tinged an ominous green, thickened considerably. If not for the Joker shooting like an idiot gangster and the stray bullets that added only more unknowable chemicals to the smoldering mess that was probably eating through the floor, the Scarecrow would have scrambled for the stairs. He had no intention of being around when the basement's atmosphere became inhospitable and everyone asphyxiated, or when the fire finally started.

Another glass was shot and broke, and the seemingly harmless clear liquid spilled out. A layman might have mistaken the chemical for water because of its colorlessness, but even the most uneducated person would have quickly wised up when, instead of dampening the smoke, the chemical set off a violent chain-reaction.

A bright rush of fire lit up the basement. The smoke detector began to shriek in earnest, alerting Harley that something was badly amiss below her feet. She inched forward, toward the door before remembering what Mister J had said. In very explicit terms, he had warned her not to open the door but to stand ready to bash the Bat. She desperately wanted to see what was going on, but she _didn't_ want her pigtails chopped off with a weed-whacker.

"I told you, you stupid bastard!" Crane yelled. Before, gunfire had drowned his voice. Now the ravenous cackle of a chemical fire was doing it.

The Joker wasn't above the occasional arson or vehicle-mounted flamethrower. Certainly, there was a pyromaniac facet to his disturbed personality. The raging fire that had suddenly sprung up like an otherworldly flower was entrancing and he was quite proud of having accidentally created it.

Batman, who had taken temporary cover on the other side of the cellar, wasn't so pleased with the fire. What was worse than fighting in a basement? Fighting in a basement that was quickly filling with toxic smoke and prowling flames. In fact, if didn't get much worse than that.

Asides from turning the air into a black cloud of smog even a Los Angeles native would choke on, the fire separated the hero and the villains. The Joker was completely safe on the stairs; he could escape without effort. Crane and Batman were trapped on the other side of the fire; to get out of the cellar, they would have to cross over the fire line.

The Scarecrow came to the realization that he was trapped on the same side as Batman. That made him mad as hell. Never mind the fact a home he had grown fond of, weeks' worth of fear toxin, books of notes, and thousands of dollars of equipment were going up in smoke. It was the Bat's presence that really ticked him off.

At about the same time Crane realized his predicament, Batman and the Joker reached the same basic conclusions. The clown was the only one particularly happy about the arrangements. As far as he was concerned, his arch nemesis was cornered. Unless the Bat was wearing his Evel Knievel flameproof underwear, he wasn't going to go anywhere near the intense fire. As the fire spread, the Bat would have less room to hide. Eventually, shooting ole Bats would be as easy as microwaving a TV dinner.

Crane resisted the urge, barely, to chuck the fear toxin at Batman and see what happened. The only thing that held him back was the fear the aerosol poison would react with the fire and create more fire. It was best to err on the side of caution when being reckless might burn all the skin from your body.

"Crane!"

Batman's voice was easily audible above the hungry roar of the flames. The Scarecrow turned toward the Dark Knight, contemplated telling him to go and use a blender as a sexual orifice, but kept that snarky comment to himself.

"What? Shut up and save what oxygen there is." Crane replied.

"Do you have a fire extinguisher down here? You couldn't have been stupid enough to forget about the danger your experiments carry." Batman said.

The Scarecrow could have kicked his own ass half-way across town. There _was_ a fire extinguisher down here! Harley had sprayed both Crane and the Joker earlier in the day to make them behave. She had dropped it and it had rolled…

Roughly two feet to his left! Rushing as much as his condition would allow, Crane grabbed the extinguisher. He hoped Harley hadn't used all the foam putting out the Joker's temper. The fire currently reducing a table to nothing but charred screws and nails wasn't going to go out without a fight.

"Can you handle that thing?" Batman asked. He was tempted to take the extinguisher from Crane and use it himself, but the villain's toxin kept him at bay.

"It's a fire extinguisher, not the Hadron collider. A second-grader could use this." The Scarecrow replied.

A second grader might have been able to use the fire extinguisher, but the normal second grader didn't attempt it with one hand resolutely refusing to let go of a canister than contained a chemical weapon. Holding the extinguisher steady and squeezing the handle was proving tricky. The stupid thing was too heavy and ungainly to work with just one hand.

While paranoid Crane refused to put down his toxin, as though Batman was going to jump on him like a leopard the second he did, the fire continued to spread. The floor was mercifully uncarpeted, and that probably saved everyone's life. The fire, as hot as it was, would have burned through the synthetic fibers of a rug in under a minute. Even without carpeting to aid it along, the flames quickly nestled down on the Scarecrow's text books, chemicals, and anything else flammable that was within reach.

"Either use the extinguisher or give it to me!" Batman ordered.

"Shut up! Stay over in your corner and be quiet." Crane said. He didn't care that he had just told the Bat off in the exact same way a day-care provider would discipline a very naughty child.

"Don't let your ego get us killed. I'm not going to attack you, so stop being a fool and spray the fire!" Batman said.

"I'll believe every Senator in Washington before I believe you. As far as I'm concerned you can go and-" The Scarecrow's words dissolved into a coughing fit. The air quality was shot to shit. As much as he would rather eat an old boot than admit it, the Bat was right. The fire had to be extinguished, or both of them would cook.

"All right." Crane knelt down and placed the fear toxin on the floor. Simply lowering his head made the world spin. The smoke, compounded with the effects of a nasty concussion, was sickening him. The Scarecrow was on the verge of collapse, try as he might to deny it.

Batman saw Crane falter, and prepared to make his move. As truly awful a man as the Scarecrow could be, he didn't deserve to burn to death in his own basement. If the villain did pass out, Bruce would finally be able to get to the extinguisher and stop the fire. As a bonus, the metal extinguisher would make a very good bludgeon to throw at the Joker.

The Scarecrow straightened and cast Batman a baleful glance. "Stay there!"

So much for that. Batman intended to keep his word and not strike the unarmed doctor, so long as Crane got that fire out in the next ten seconds.

"Keep it together, Jonathan."

It was all much easier with two hands. Crane lifted the extinguisher, aimed it at the rapidly growing fire, put pressure on the handle, and was promptly shot. He heard the solitary bang over the noise of the fire, looked down and saw the extinguisher had both an entrance and exit wound. The bullet had been slowed down by the metal shell, but had retained enough energy to inflict damage to the Scarecrow.

The fire extinguisher was now useless; that had been the Joker's target the whole time. He wasn't about to let the Scarecrow put out the blaze and ruin his fun. The clown hadn't actually been sure if the bullet would make it through the extinguisher, but he was pleased to see the abject look of horror on both the Bat's and the Mop Man's faces. As far as he was concerned, any injury Johnny ended up with was punishment for trying to interfere.

Crane dropped the punctured extinguisher and brought a trembling hand to his chest. He felt very little pain, and took it as a bad sign. He was probably all ready in shock; he'd been shot in the general area of his heart and lungs. A wound like that could kill a man in a minute or less.

Batman watched anxiously, fully expecting Crane to topple over at any second. He was currently pulling at the material of his shirt, directly over the wound. There had been no spray of blood that would indicate a mortal wound, unless the Scarecrow was bleeding internally.

To the immense surprise and relief of both the hero and the scrawny villain, Crane removed his hand from his chest and brought the bullet with him. The fire extinguisher had acted as a shield, taking most of the damage from the shot. If not for the protection, the Scarecrow would have been a corpse. As was, his skin had barely been broken.

Though Batman was too far away and the air was too murky for him to see it, Crane was able to examine the round that had nearly killed him. The bullet hadn't fared well; it was flattened and warped, looking more like a bottle-cap than ammunition.

"No magic bullet here!" Crane said. He sounded like a man who had just walked away from a plane crash as the sole survivor.

The toxic air, concussion, and trauma of narrowly escaping death were all touch much for the Scarecrow. He collapsed to the floor gracelessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fire creeping closer, consuming tables and anything else combustible. His survival instinct demanded he crawl away before he was roasted like a luau pig, but he could hardly keep his eyes open, let alone coordinate an escape.

"Hope you two like it hot!" The Joker cackled.

Forgetting about caution, Batman dashed forward to the fallen Scarecrow's side. Crane was still conscious, but barely. Hoping he would be in the mood to listen and not fight, the Bat said, "I'm going to move you away from the fire. We'll get out of here."

Apparently, Crane's brain interpreted Batman's words as, "I'm going to hang you from a tree and let little children beat sugary treats from you with a stick." He tried to sit up, to attack, but only managed to get his hand to flop like a dying fish. By some miracle, that hand flopped down on the canister of fear toxin.

"Don't do it. I know you want to, but if you do, we're both going to die." Batman said. He coughed, too. Even the Dark Knight was human. He couldn't stand the smoke much longer, either.

Crane's feet were starting to get mighty hot. It was essentially now or never.

The Scarecrow was yanked back viciously. His shoes were no longer in danger of spontaneous combustion, but there was little room for further retreat. Whatever master plan Batman had, he had better enact it soon.

"We're going to jump through the fire." Batman said.

"WHAT!?" Crane yelled. Suddenly, he found he did have a little more strength.

"The suit's flame retardant. I'll wrap the cape, whatever's left of it, around you. Then we'll jump and hope to clear the fire." Batman explained.

"You're insane. I can't walk, let alone jump." The Scarecrow said.

"I know. I'm going to carry you."

"No! I'd rather stay here and die."

"I'm not going to let that happen."

"I will not be carried by you! No! No! No!"

"Yes."

With that it was sealed. There was no use arguing with a stone. Much to his chagrin and embarrassment, Crane was hefted off the floor and into the air. He was never going to forgive the Bat for this. Never!

The black cape, tattered and hardly half its original size, was wrapped around the unwilling Scarecrow. The cape was saturated with the stink of bad hyena breath. Great. Not only was Crane relying on the bastard that always foiled his plans, but he was going to have to smell Bud and Lou's dead-zebra breath the whole time.

"Ready?" Batman asked.

"I'm going to die." Crane moaned.

"Hopefully not." Batman said.

It was a shame there was no Olympic event for clearing a fiery wall of death. If there was, Batman would have been given the gold, silver, and bronze medals. It was unlikely any other country would send one of its athletes to perform in such a lunatic event, but that didn't diminish how well Batman performed.

There was one swift instance of terrible, eyebrow-frying heat and then the cape was pulled away. The fire was now safely behind them, and intent on eating what little it hadn't all ready. Crane was torn between immense relief and equally powerful fury at owing the Bat such a debt.

"The Joker's gone."

Indeed, the stairs were empty. The clown had retreated back upstairs, probably to either get more ammo, or to grab some stupid exploding gag joke. Batman didn't intend to sit around and find out; he was getting out of the basement, which was completely filled with smoke.

"I can get up the stairs! Put me down!" The Scarecrow ordered.

"Don't try anything." The Bat said. He didn't want to drop Crane, but he needed his hands free. If the Joker was waiting on the other side of the door, Batman wanted to be ready to counter the clown.

Gently as possible, Batman set Crane on his feet. The Scarecrow was dead-set on walking under his own power. For reasons of safety, Batman had Crane go up the stairs first.

The Scarecrow opened the door and stepped into the mercifully clear and clean air of the kitchen. The first thing he saw was Harley, armed with the toilet plunger. She swung it upward, like some medieval barbarian with a battle axe. Crane had the good sense to duck and avoid the less-than-deadly weapon.

Batman was clocked with the toilet plunger. That was a new experience for him; he'd never been assaulted by a woman holding a plunger before. Considering the stupid thing was made out of rubber and not stone or wood, he supposed he got off lucky.

Harley jabbed with the toilet plunger, and Batman made a grab for it. She pulled back and the Bat followed. He was going to take the plunger from her, whack her with it so she knew how it felt, and then throw it out the nearest window.

As soon as Batman cleared the door, the extent of the Joker's plan became evident. The clown emerged from behind the door and brought something up high over his head. It was the toaster.

The toaster had some serious heft. It was one of those appliances that could brown enough toast to satisfy an entire office building. Crane had never explained why he had an eight-slot toaster when he never ate more than one piece for breakfast, but the Joker was grateful for it now.

The blown to the head sent Batman stumbling. The Joker was on him in an instant, smashing the toaster into his head again. If there had been an Olympic event for breaking your enemy's skull with an everyday appliance, the Joker would have won gold, silver, bronze, and some other medal invented just to make him happy and keep him from blowing up the Australian gymnast team.

One final whack with a toaster that would never toast again, and Batman was out cold on the floor. Harley and Crane peered at him with a combination of awe and disbelief. The Joker had just bested the Batman. With a toaster.

The Joker apparently got the irony of the situation, and burst into his trademark laughter. "For _years_ I've been trying to do this with every trick you can imagine. I must have been going about it wrong. It turns out a bat's natural enemy is the common toaster. Who knew?"

"That's great Mister J, but what are we gonna do with him now?" Harley asked.

The three villains exchanged looks. None of them really had any idea.

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Author's Notes:

That was much longer than anticipated. I kept saying "cut it off" but my hands kept typing.

Munch is most famous for _The Scream_ but did a lot of other creepy art.

Von Braun worked on V-2 rockets for the Nazis, and then on spacecrafts for NASA.

In _Watchmen_, Ozymandias was purported to be the fastest man alive. He does actually catch a bullet.

Evel Knievel was probably the most famous daredevil ever.

The Hadron collider is the world's largest particle accelerator. People feared it would create a black hole and destroy the planet. It didn't, obviously.

The so-called magic bullet passed through JFK's throat and then through the body of Texas governor John Connally. It was hardly damaged, despite having traveled through both men.


	18. Cat Bordello

Thanks for all the reviews! I'm totally overwhelmed by the responses. Suppose you can bump it to 120?

SendMoreParamedics and Mad Scientist Sidekick: yeah, I was pretty much going on the 'dog chasing cars' concept.

Darkknightwing: I figured it was you. Hi new name! And be as excited and sadistic as you please. I am not here to discourage it.

SoSott: Spread the weird reference joy!

Sorry this took so long. My laptop broke and I had to write on a replacement. I miss my baby and I want it back! Wah!

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"I'm as eager as you are to pay the Bat back for all the misery he's caused, but we do have a problem. There's a Centralia situation directly beneath our feet." Crane said.

"I don't care if a hole to hell opened in the basement." The Joker replied.

"Essentially, that is what happened. The fire, which you started you useless son of a bitch, could be eating away at the floor as we speak. This entire house may be close to collapse." The Scarecrow said.

"Then go get the garden hose and play firefighter. I'm not letting this opportunity fly away." The clown said.

"A garden hose against that fire? Spitting on it would be about as effective. We have to leave before the floor falls in."

"Where do you suggest we go, Mop Man? My hideout blew up, the Riddler would never be stupid enough to invite us in, and we can't go to the Ritz with Batman. Can you imagine it? 'Bellhop! Take that Bat up to room 1408 and be snappy about it!' Couldn't find a bellboy buff enough for the job." The Joker said.

Harley snapped her fingers. "That house next door! I don't think nobody lives there. We could just sneak in and make ourselves at home."

That was a fine idea, except for one thing: the crazy cat lady down the street, and her collection of hairballs. Crane had, not long after moving in, taken a peek in the neighboring home. The place was overrun with cats. Oblivious to the advice Bob Barker had given since the turn of the century, the cat hoarder had not spayed or neutered any of her animals. The abandoned house was a den of kitty sin and debauchery.

"No, we can't go there. It's a cat bordello." The Scarecrow said.

"What's a bordello?" Harley asked.

The Joker said, "I'll tell you when you're older."

The blonde huffed, but didn't press the matter. She could always find a dictionary or a public computer at the Gotham library if she really needed to know what a bordello was. There were more important matters at hand than Word of the Day calendars. It might have just been Harley's imagination, but she believed the floor beneath her was starting to warm up a little. It wasn't like stepping on a sizzling skillet, but she was worried.

"Uh, Puddin', I think the Professor's right. We gotta vamoose pretty soon." Harley said.

"And why is that, Harley? Do you enjoy hauling around the men I beat unconscious? Because if you do, I'll go out and find you someone incredibly _fat_ and we'll go from there." The Joker said.

"No, Mister J, I _don't_ enjoy haulin' people around. It's just that the floor's gettin' hotter. I thought it might've been my imagination, but the Babies are feelin' it too." Harley said.

Bud and Lou were indeed looking a little hot-footed. They gingerly placed their paws on the floor, and were avoiding certain areas all together. Because of their thicker shoes, the Scarecrow and the Joker were yet to feel the heat.

Crane put his hand against the linoleum and frowned. "Oh, yes. That's not a good sign. I don't care what you do, but I'm going outside. I've nearly been burned alive once tonight."

"All right! I admit it, I was wrong. The floor is going to burst into flame and we are going to have to leave. Spooky, go get your truck. Bring it to the back door." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow sputtered with a mix of outrage and disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? You shot me in the chest. I am done running errands for you. You want my truck, get it yourself."

The Joker sighed. This was why he liked working with Harley and henchmen with IQs under 50. When he told Harley to fetch him a nice cold soda, she didn't stand around badgering him about it. When he ordered a henchman to plant a bomb, or throw a kitten into a tree, or slip cyanide into a Boy Scout troop's bake sale, that henchman didn't spend thirty years analyzing the morality of the situation. He tossed that kitty and poisoned those muffins!

Spooky wasn't a normal henchman, and apparently still didn't understand where he was on the villain food chain. The top predator was the Joker. Then there was Harley. Then Bud and Lou. Then the toaster. Then there was Johnny the Mop Man. He was the lowest rung on the ladder before the autotrophs showed up.

"I'll tell you one more time. Go. Get. The. Truck. Now!"

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Get it or else!"

"Go take a long fall with a short rope!"

If that was the way the nerd wanted to play, fine. The Joker knew how to deal with people like Spooky. The clown reached into his pocket and retrieved his gun. He was making excellent friends with his weapon today. The NRA would have to forgive him for losing his magazines and allowing the sofa to temporarily ingest his gun.

"Why don't you threaten me with something new? I've all ready been shot once today. Look, there's blood and everything." Crane said.

"Something new, huh? Not a problem! What if I just pretend you're a zombie, and pistol-whip you until your brain's nothing but Jell-O? That would be interesting and it would keep you from spreading your zombie plague to Europe." The Joker said.

A spike of sympathy pain shot through Crane's head at the mere thought of any further abuse. Being shot, mortally most likely, would be unpleasant but only until he bled out. Getting smacked on the head would be exponentially worse.

"I'll get the truck." Crane said.

"Since when can zombies drive? Harley, you saw _Shaun of the Dead_. Did Phil drive after he turned into the hungry undead?" The Joker asked.

"No, Puddin', he didn't. But Professor Crane's not a zombie. I mean, he's talkin, and it ain't 'brains, brains!' or anything like that." Harley said.

"I'm going, I'm going." The Scarecrow said.

Before the Joker could decide to play zombie hunter, Crane limped his barely twitching carcass out of the room. The truck was out in the yard, unless some thugs cruising from the grungiest alleys of downtown Gotham had disassembled it for parts. The Scarecrow hoped that hadn't happened. He didn't want to know what the killer clown would do if his ride was nothing but a sad shell and a bullet-riddled windshield. Even the most ingenious chop-shop would have trouble selling a windshield full of holes.

Mercifully, the car-thieves hadn't made it this far into the suburbs. The purple pickup, looking decidedly less like a monster than it had under the effects of fear toxin, was unmolested. Crane approached it, and was then struck with a singularly selfish and delicious thought.

Why should he do anything for the Joker? The clown was in a house that was ready to burn up like a funeral pyre. Crane was outside, only feet from his best chance at escape. He could be long gone before the Joker got annoyed at the holdup and came looking for him. The Scarecrow knew a rat hole or two he could curl up in for a few days. What was stopping him from forgetting all about the Batman, the Joker, and the day's general agony?

"Because he'd find me and he'd do everything but kill me." The Scarecrow said.

That was the sad reality of the situation. As long as the Joker was free, and holding a grudge for any reason, Crane was in danger. The clown, through his network of informants, or tortured victims, or wiretaps on police phone lines, or however the hell he got his information, could track anyone down. He was like a sinister bloodhound, able to follow a trail through the city without a problem.

Muttering about how unfairly life treated him, the Scarecrow stopped at the tailgate of the truck. A few grocery bags the Joker hadn't chucked out in his mad quest for ice cream were still resting in the bed of the truck. The universe Crane had just been decrying granted him a favor. The bag containing first aid supplies had survived the Joker's searching.

"Hallelujah." Crane said.

The Scarecrow shook the various medicinal items from the bag. In the dark, with only a half moon to serve as a lamp, it was difficult to distinguish the various bottles and containers. Finally, Crane located a plastic bottle of Tylenol. He fiddled with the childproof cap before popping it off. The cap slipped through his fingers and was lost in the grass. Crane did not pursue it.

"Take two and call me in the morning. Doctor jokes, ha." The Scarecrow said. Ignoring the warning label about overdose, Crane shook six pills from the bottle. If the Joker hadn't killed him by now, three times the recommended dose of Tylenol wasn't going to either.

Ignoring how much care, scientific research, paper, and glue had gone into making the warning labels, Crane put the pills in his mouth and chewed them. The Tylenol manufacturers would have been pulling their hair out by the roots if they knew how badly their product was being abused.

Even though the painkillers looked a little like candy, enough alike so that a young child would have grubbed them up, they surely didn't taste sweet. Asides from being hard enough to snap off teeth, the Tylenol also tasted like contaminated sand. Crane winced, wishing he had something, especially something with sugar, to wash the horrendously bitter taste out of his mouth. Even after he swallowed the crushed pills, the aftertaste lingered like a certain unwanted guest.

Hoping the Tylenol was both as powerful and as quick-acting as the commercials advertised, the Scarecrow made his way to the front of the truck. Someone, presumably Harley unless there was an auto safety fairy flitting around, had untwisted the ignition wires and shut the truck off. Not too keen to repeat the initial shock he had received hotwiring the truck in the parking lot, Crane got the engine running again.

The proudly purple pickup purred like a cat: a discolored, totally hairless cat that got between ten and fifteen miles on each gallon of fuel it consumed. Careful not to bump his head off the top of the door frame, Crane got into the driver's seat. The truck's digital clock was kind enough to tell him it was a little after midnight. The Scarecrow wished he was sleeping, snug in his bed, with a hyena under his feet, and not out aiding the Joker's nefarious and doubtlessly brain-numbing plans.

Careful to avoid the maple tree, which was wilted and pathetic, Crane drove the truck to the rear of the house. The back door was open and Harley, her despicable parasitic lover, the hyenas, and an enormous shape that was either Batman or an adult Grizzly were all silhouetted by the kitchen light. The Joker was bent over Batman's unconscious form, and appeared to be fiddling around with the gadgets on his utility belt. Or, at least, that was what the Scarecrow forced himself to believe. Surely, Harley would step in to stop any impropriety. Right?

Crane put the truck in park, and stuck his head out the window. "Why are you all outside? Did the floor catch fire?"

"Not yet, but it's gettin' there in a hurry!" Harley said.

"My sole has melted. You owe me a new one." The Joker said, straightening up from whatever task he had been engaged in.

"You don't have a soul, clown." Crane said.

"Yes I do, and it's melted. Do you have any idea how much a pair of my shoes cost? If you don't, you will when my cobbler sends you the bill." The Joker said. He stood on one leg, and showed the Scarecrow the underside of one of his shoes. The footwear had indeed sustained some heat damage.

Just when he thought he had reached the pinnacle of human mental and physical agony, the disturbed clown started making shoe puns. Crane wanted to curl into a ball and turn off the light. This was, absolutely, the most awful thing to ever take place in all of mankind's bloody and sordid history.

"Next time you want to make a joke like that, make sure I'm dead beyond any hope of resuscitation before you do it." The Scarecrow said.

"Everybody's a critic! Harley, you thought it was funny, didn't you?" The jaded clown asked.

"Actually, Puddin', I think the non-Disney version of _Old Yeller_ was funnier than that. No offense or nothing." Harley said.

"Bats, you're my only hope." The Joker said.

For one terrible moment, Crane thought the Dark Knight had woken up, and was going to physically demonstrate, with much punching and beating, just how funny he thought the Joker was. That fear was alleviated when the Joker grabbed the hero's jaw, and in an act of perfect ventriloquism, turned Batman into his dummy.

"You're the king of comedy, Joker! You're also the snappiest dresser, the greatest artist, and the sexiest sex machine to ever grace this unworthy town."

"Puddin', you've been spendin' too much time with Puppet Head." Harley said.

"There is nothing, no torture or threat, that would ever force Batman to say that." Crane pointed out.

"He's a little OOC, so what? Even a guy like Bats has to fall victim to my charms sometimes. I'm irresistible." The Joker said.

The Scarecrow wasn't going to ask what OOC meant, or who, asides from Harley, found the Joker even slightly attractive. He certainly wasn't going to ask if the Joker had a gay streak a mile wide, even though that thought was doing naked cartwheels through his brain. In fact, he was just going to forget the entire conversation and write it off as a product of whatever brain disease the clown obviously suffered from.

"It does seem like the elephant in the room, but what are we going to do with Batman? I take it you aren't going to turn him in to the police for his nightly vigilante activity." Crane said.

"Duh." The Joker said. "Spooky, I'm not paying you to ask stupid questions. So why don't you stop?"

"Fine, I'll just shut up and drive. Why don't you ride in the back, with your beloved Batman?" The Scarecrow suggested.

The Joker acted as though Crane had suggested they all renounce their evil ways, join the Peace Corps, and convert to Buddhism. "No one puts Joker in the back, nobody!"

Crane rolled his eyes. "Then throw the Bat in the back, stick Harley and the hyenas somewhere, and let's go. Night's wasting, and I don't want to be caught driving around in broad daylight with you sitting next to me."

"Harley, you heard the straw man! Throw the Bat in the back pronto."

The blonde's mouth fell open so far it nearly reached her belly button. "Mister J, I can't do it!" She whined.

The Clown Prince came over to see what the problem was. It was quite obvious. Harley was just a petite little lady. The Bat was roughly the size of a bull alligator, and even more dangerous because an alligator couldn't fly through the air using a grappling hook. Without a winch and pulley system, there was no physically possible way for her to get Batman into the truck.

"How much can you lift, Spooky?" The Joker asked.

"Right now? Oh, about an ounce or so. Anything more than a postage stamp would probably break me." Crane replied sarcastically.

"Stupid useless scrawny nerd." The clown muttered.

Watching in the rearview mirror, the Scarecrow was granted the best seat to the most hopelessly funny act he had seen in a very long time. The Joker had clambered into the bed of the truck, while Harley stayed on the ground. Bud decided to join the Joker, and was wandering around, sniffing the few bags that remained. Crane hoped the hyena didn't get into the Tylenol.

"Okay, Harley-pie. See if you can get his leg up here." The Joker said.

Harley grabbed Batman's foot, and attempted to raise it high enough for the Joker to grab. The only issue was that the rest of the hero's body was attached to the foot. Grunting, cursing, and getting her pigtails in a knot, Harley was finally able to lift the leg onto the tailgate.

"Great, we've got a leg here. I'm going to pull on this, and you push." The Joker said.

To her infinite credit, Harley did manage to almost get Batman onto the truck by herself. The Joker was next to useless, and seemed to forget his end of the plan. He dropped Batman's leg, and instead took up the task of shooing Bud away from anything that looked remotely like it might be food.

"Bad dog, bad! Let go of that, whatever it is. I want some food, damn it."

Harley's muscles gave out on her. She had time to emit one horrified, hamster-like squeak before Batman fell on top of her. She was nearly flattened by the Caped Crusader's weight.

"Harley? Harley, where did you go? Oh, what're you doing under there?" The Joker asked.

"I'm bein' squished!" Harley said.

"Oh. Hold on a second. I've got to get back those brownies."

The Joker never did get those brownies. Bud leapt from the truck, laughing, and scurried into the night. His laughter, and the sounds of him tearing apart the plastic container that held the brownies, marked his location. The clown cursed darkly, and hopped down to help his favorite hench-wench before she suffocated underneath his favorite flying vermin.

"Mister J, remind me why I love you again!" Harley panted when the Joker finally dragged Batman's dead weight from her.

"Cause I'm cuddly." The Joker said.

"So are Bud and Lou." Harley said.

"Cause I'm a genius."

"So's Professor Crane."

"Cause I'm a super sex machine who can go all night."

"Okay."

Since Harley had forgiven him for leaving her squashed and helpless, the clownish duo buckled down to get the job done. Mister J really put his back into it this time. With Harley pushing on Batman and the Joker yanking on his leg, they were finally able to force the Dark Knight into the back of the truck.

Crane popped his head out the window again. "What about the Babies?"

"Professor! I knew you'd learn to love Bud and Lou! They can ride in the back. If B-man gets up, they can eat his feet off so he can't go nowhere." Harley said.

On Harley's command the two hyenas eagerly bounded into the truck. Harley pointed at Batman, and said, "If he so much as twitches one bat-finger, sic him!"

Harley locked the tailgate and walked to the front of the truck. The cab had enough room to seat three people, especially when one of those people was bony and one was a woman. The Joker had already taken the middle seat, so he could annoy Harley and Crane with equal ease.

The Scarecrow checked the rearview mirror, and found Lou staring straight at him. That was pretty creepy. Hopefully, the hyena would decide to sniff Batman or ruffle through the bags or something. Crane didn't want the mutt watching him the whole time.

"Do you have any idea where we should go, clown?" Crane asked.

"Not a single one." The Joker replied.

"Are we just going to rely on psychic magnetism to find a hideout?" The Scarecrow asked.

"Works for me, Johnny-boy. I'd suggest you get moving before Batman wakes up. He'll be grumpy and looking for someone weak and sissy-looking to bring to justice." The Joker said.

"One day, fate's going to bite you on the ass for all the pain you've caused me." Crane muttered.

The clown snorted. "Karma doesn't bite me, I bite karma."

Knowing it was probably true, Crane put the truck in drive and headed toward the road. He was about to merge onto the nearly empty street when the Joker called out excitedly. The Scarecrow slammed on the brakes, wondering if it was a certain black-clad ninja wannabe who had just drawn the clown's attention.

"Look what I just found! It's Spooky Junior!"

This was going to be a long, long night.

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Author's Notes:

Centralia is a city in Pennsylvania that is essentially abandoned. Decades ago, a fire started in the coal mines underneath the city and the entire place is now uninhabitable because the streets are prone to collapse and noxious gases from the fires routinely burst through the ground.

1408 is the haunted hotel room in a Stephen King story by the same name.

The zombie plague spreading to Europe is a reference to _28 Weeks Later_. Not as good as the original, but pretty sinister in its own rights.

In _Shaun of the Dead_, Phil was Shaun's stepfather. He was bitten by a zombie and turned into one while inside his own car. He didn't drive, but he did turn off the CD player.

In an episode of B:TAS, Harley refers to the Ventriloquist as "Puppet Head".

OOC, as most fanfiction writers know, stands for Out of Character. I don't know where the Joker would pick it up but, meh.

Psychic magnetism is from the Dean Koontz book _Odd Thomas_. It was a power of Odd's, where he could, by driving randomly, end up where he needed to be more often than not.


	19. The Road of Death

Thanks for all the reviews! You guys are fantastical.

Theatre-gypsy: Pun-ishment. Not bad, not bad at all!

SendMoreParamedics: I think if the Scarecrow knew about half the stuff that's popped up in fanfictions about him, he'd burn down the Internet. Don't ask me how. He'd find a way.

Well, I have my laptop back, but all my files are gone. I'm depressed over that. Oh well.

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"I want my mask."

"Keep your eyes on the road. I'm taking care of Spooky Junior right now, so you just watch where you're going. We don't want you hitting any blind pedestrians or old ladies." The Joker said.

"It's twelve thirty at night. All the old women are home, asleep. I wish _I_ was home, but I no longer have one thanks to you and your limitless stupidity." Crane replied.

The Joker inserted his hand into the mask, and began another routine. The Scarecrow's skin crawled in revulsion. He was never, ever going to be able to wear that mask again. He'd have to remove the air filters, always assuming he still trusted them, and burn the burlap. Then he'd have to start from scratch. It really was going to be a burden, considering he was going to have to remake his entire costume. Maybe he could do a few adjustments, make it scarier, update the look. Or maybe he should stop trying to see the paltry silver lining on the destructive Category 5 hurricane and accept his life was pure garbage.

"Spooky, why'd you leave me? I missed you, and I know you missed me! I'm the only friend you've got. Without me, you'd be just a nerd playing with his chemistry set. Oh, that's it, isn't it? You've fallen in love with that alchemist _whore_! How could you trade me in for beakers and university text books? And why didn't you give those books back when they fired you?" The mask wailed.

"I hate myself and want to die." Crane moaned.

The frightening burlap sack poked him in the head. The Scarecrow grit his teeth against the pain that raced eagerly through his skull. The Tylenol had apparently not taken effect. He knew he should have taken more.

"No, Spooky! If you die, Mister J will be forced to go back to bothering Harley and that's not as much fun. I love that Joker because he's all the fun you're not. If I wasn't so attached to you, I'd run off with him and live happily ever after, at least until a hyena ate me."

"Goddamned traitor. After all the times I stabbed myself sewing you. Wait, why am I talking to the mask itself? Joker, damn you, leave my mask alone. It's literally all I have left." The Scarecrow said.

The Joker threw a friendly arm around the Scarecrow's bony shoulders and pulled him over. Crane barely maintained control of the steering wheel. "Come on, Mop Man. You've got me, and Harley, and those mutts like you well enough. Oh, and this truck, you've got that. Minus the holes in the windshield, and the damage you had to do hotwiring it, it's a pimping vehicle."

"If you ever use the word 'pimping' again, I'll snap off the windshield wiper and jam it down your throat."

The Clown Prince laughed. "All right, Johnny. If you don't like the slang of the African American community, let's all talk like pirates. How about that?"

Harley squealed with joy. "Let me go first! Uh, arrg, Mister J, this be one sturdy ship. Yo-ho, yo-ho, where's the rum?"

"Arg, me bonny wench, you don't get any rum." The Joker said.

The two clowns turned to Crane, obviously expecting him to join in the swashbuckling fun. The Scarecrow growled under his breath, though that didn't do anything to dissuade Harley or the Joker. Neither of them could understand how a man wouldn't want to talk like a pirate; it was perhaps the greatest imitation a person could ever learn to do.

"Come on, Professor, it's fun. Just try it. Arrrg! See, it's easy." Harley said.

"Never. I'll retain what shreds of dignity I still possess, thank you." The Scarecrow said.

The burlap mask latched onto Crane's face like one of the spider-like face-huggers from the _Alien_ movies. Totally blind, unable to watch out for those little old ladies the Joker had warned him about earlier, the Scarecrow yanked the steering wheel violently. Harley shrieked, the mask was mercifully dislodged, and Batman's unconscious body was knocked into Lou. The hyena snarled and snapped at the Knight's armored fingers.

"Are we still alive?" Harley asked. She patted her body, confirming she still had her feet, legs, tummy, ample chest, shoulders, neck, head, and pigtails. Convinced that she hadn't died, Harley let out a sigh of relief. Then, realizing how close the truck had come to careening into a mailbox and earning them all the eternal wrath of the United States Postal Service, she reared up like a hydra and let her Puddin' have it.

"Mister J, we almost got killed because of you! Give the Professor back his mask right now and keep your hands to yourself. Jeez! I know you don't like bein' bored, but I don't like havin' to go to the ER."

Properly chastised, the Joker handed over Spooky Junior. Crane snatched the burlap sack from the clown's hand and barely resisted the urge to beat the Joker's head against the dashboard. What kind of mentally impaired, sick, deranged fool covered the eyes of a man who was driving? Did the Joker want to know what it was like to be a road fatality? If so, the Scarecrow would kindly offer to run him over and then back the truck over his corpse a few times if the lunatic wanted extra lessons.

"Okay, Mister J, remember. Hands to yourself, just like in kindergarten and no more takin' what doesn't belong to you." Harley said.

"I don't remember if I even went to kindergarten." The Joker replied.

"Do you know your ABC's and how to count to ten?"

"Yes."

"Then you went to kindergarten."

While Harley and the Joker tried to puzzle out what schooling he may have had, Crane eased the truck away from the mailbox and into the street. Thanks to the lateness of the hour, there were no cars to watch out for. Certain sections of Gotham, the ones that housed the dance clubs, the mob hangouts, and the majority of the hookers, never slept. The more suburban parts did tend to cool down once the sun set.

"I want to know where we're going. Give me anything, no matter how specific or vague. Any spare hideouts you've got, any henchmen with their own apartments, anything." The Scarecrow said.

"Uh, Spooky, no offense to your lovely chunk of gray, boring America, but if I had any other place on the entire planet, I would be there now! Really, all my hideouts: dust. My henchmen: prison or the grave, and I don't want to share an apartment in either of those places. And I'm never staying with Harley's grandma, either." The Joker said.

Harley sighed, and then snapped her fingers. "Oh, oh, I know what to do! Let's go move in with someone like, uh, who's not in Arkham right now?"

The Joker counted off his fingers. "Let's see here. Last I saw, before the TV died, Two-Face had escaped. But there's no way I'm living with him. He probably smells like burnt hair and that coin flipping thing makes me nauseous. Croc, he's still caged, and there's no way I'm rooming with Godzilla. I never liked the Riddler; he's always been too close to stealing my shtick."

"What about the Mad Hatter? I don't think they caught him." Harley suggested.

Crane snorted and shook his head. Share a house with Jervis Tetch? Those two had no idea of just how _weird_ the Hatter could get. He did, and it was a memory he had tried without success to repress.

"No, you don't want to even consider Tetch unless you find the idea of sleeping under a Jabberwocky, which remotely resembles a gargoyle from a Sci-Fi Channel original movie, or next to a walrus, incredibly appealing. Tell me, what kind of man wants to sleep next to a walrus?"

"Goo, goo, g'joob! Get it? Walrus? That song… You don't get it, do you?" Harley asked, visibly stricken by her riding companions' lack of comprehension.

The Scarecrow shrugged his shoulders. He had a vague inclination of what Harley was talking about, but nothing leapt out at him. The Joker just stared, before bursting out into laughter so loud it rocked the truck. "Harley-baby, I _never _know what you're talking about, but that one just beats all!"

Sinking into a black depression she wasn't sure she'd ever rise from, Harley turned and looked out the window. Jeez, what was the world coming to? People could tell you what in the heck 'fo-shizzle' meant, but nobody, not even Professor Crane who could give a lecture on okra, heard of _I am the Walrus_? And all because everyone was clueless or musically dead, the whole joke had been ruined. It had sounded downright sharp inside her head, but there certainly hadn't been blank stares in her imagination.

"I don't like walruses, myself. Something about the whiskers makes me uncomfortable. So, I guess we can scratch Hatty off our list."

"Why don't we forget about being parasitic for awhile? It isn't even like anyone's going to invite us in. We'll be lucky if we aren't just shot and killed on the doorstep. It's what I should have done with you to begin with, clown." The Scarecrow said.

"That's not a very nice thing to say, Johnny. On the bright side, no matter who we end up with, they're bound to be friendlier than you. You weren't hugged often as a child, were you?" The Joker asked.

"No, I wasn't." Crane confirmed.

Something on the side of the road caught the Scarecrow's eye. Without bothering to use his turn signal, he crossed the center lane. The Joker, curious as to why they were now driving into opposing traffic, asked, "Spooky, you do know that line's there for a reason, right? It's to keep us over there, and them over there, so there's no smashing."

"Don't tell me how to drive. We have to make a quick pit stop, and the convenience store is on the other side of the road. Ergo, I need to be here momentarily." Crane said.

"Why do we have to stop? I'm not making some glorified bodega my new hideout." The Joker said.

"There're several necessities I hope to get, and, to make this as clear as possible to you and your simple mind, I need to piss."

"Oh."

Crane parked his truck next to the solitary gas pump. He took a quick glance at the advertised price of fuel, and nearly gagged. This was one more reason not to own a car: it took more to feed a vehicle than it did a child! Weren't they fighting wars over in the sun-baked deserts of the Mideast to get the prices down? Not for the first time, the Scarecrow wondered if he'd be executed or hailed as a hero if he gassed the Senate with particularly virulent fear toxin.

"Don't touch anything, clown."

The Joker wiped his bleached white finger down the windshield, leaving a streak on the glass. A violently throbbing vein appeared on the Scarecrow's forehead. If he ever got the chance, he was pushing the Joker down a deep well where either rats or drowned, creepy girls could eat him.

Donning his mask, and trying to forget the clown had ever defiled it, Crane headed for the store. From what he could see, no one was perusing the aisles and only one clerk was on shift. That was incredibly lucky, because if anyone wanted to be a hero and get a shiny plaque from the mayor, they would have any easy time of taking down a desperately wanted fugitive. One good tap on the head would probably render said fugitive unconscious. Crane just had to hope the clerk wasn't one of those men who kept a gun or a baseball bat under the counter.

The Scarecrow shoved open the door, and the clerk's head whipped up. He was a young man, college-age, and he was desperate to get rid of something. Curious, Crane approached the counter. The clerk began to babble and tried without success to hide something under the cash register.

"What's the hourly wage for reading pornography?" The Scarecrow asked.

"Oh, shit! Oh, crap! Scarecrow, man, don't experiment on me! I did enough drugs in high school!" The clerk wailed.

"I'm not going to experiment on you. But, I do need your assistance. Grab three of those plastic bags and stop whimpering. Are you a man or a toddler?"

When the kid had complied, Crane took a look around the mini-mart. Its most prestigious display was a wooden magazine rack. Most of the magazines were covered in shrink-wrap and had stickers informing that their contents were strictly for those above the age of 18. Asides from dirty magazines, it also featured two coolers stocked with beer.

"I need you, my new friend, to find several items for me. The first item is Advil, since Tylenol is every bit as effective against pain as banging my head against a wall. The second item is duct tape, rope, clothes line, anything you have that could be used to restrain a man. Don't cry, I'm not using it on you. Thirdly, fill that bag with anything you think a clown might like. Candy, animal crackers, cigarettes, I don't care."

The clerk nodded. "And, uh, what're you going to do?"

"I'm going to use your restroom. Where is it?"

The clerk pointed, and Crane followed the line of his finger. "It says employees only, but you can pretty much ignore that. My friends use it all the time, anyway."

The bathroom, despite its relatively exclusive use, wasn't any better than a putrid truck stop restroom. Whoever the clerk's 'friends' were, they knew how to properly destroy a place. Graffiti, most of it involving bodily functions or ex-girlfriends' sexual skills, covered the walls. Some dolt had punched the mirror, and traces of blood were obvious in the ruined glass. A single beaten sneaker sat in the sink like a dead cockroach. Speaking of which, one of those floated in the toilet.

By the time Crane returned from the cesspool that served as a bathroom, the kid had stuffed all three bags to bursting. The Scarecrow was impressed; he liked efficiency. Eager to get the villain out of his store, the clerk eagerly handed over the bags.

"You want me gone, do you? All right. One more small thing. If I suddenly find police pursuing me, I will return and do things to your mind you will never recover from."

The kid, already sweating, went so pale his freckles stood out like embers. "No cops, I got it."

Leaving the clerk to figure out a course of action that wouldn't end in him shrieking and clawing at himself in a hidden laboratory, Crane hauled his bags outside. He was halfway to the truck when the horn started blaring. The Joker and his two second attention span had struck again.

"Come on, Spooky! Hey, what's in the bags?"

Instead of returning to the driver's seat, the Scarecrow stepped cautiously to the back of the truck. He peered over into the bed, wanting to be sure the Bat was still out cold before he got too close. Bud and Lou were completely relaxed, and Lou had taken to using the armored hero as a doggy bed. The hyena perched on Batman's chest the way a cat would snuggle its sleeping owner.

Satisfied that Batman wasn't going to sit up and attack like a not-quite-dead horror movie fiend, Crane lowered the tailgate and began sorting through the bags. He had told the clerk to round up anything that could be used to bind a man, and now it was time to see how he had faired.

At first, it looked like he was going to have to renege on his promise, recruit the Joker, and torture the clerk. The useless, work-shirking punk somehow thought twine was strong enough to immobilize a man. Crane wouldn't trust a kite made out of newspaper to the string. The pair of shoelaces he pulled out next weren't a great deal more encouraging. Just as he was about to give up on America's youth, he found the duct tape. Much, much better.

Dredging up the memory of waking up to find himself bound in his own bed sheets and yards of duct tape, Crane began to unwind the fresh roll of tape. He scooted Lou off the Batman, and then wound tape around the Bat's wrists. After everything from the elbow down was hidden in a thick layer of silver tape, the ankles got the same treatment. Going a little crazy with the tape, the Scarecrow tore off several strips and stuck one on the Bat's mouth, and another over the eye holes in the cowl. If not for the necessity of breathing, Crane probably would have taped Batman's nostrils shut, as well.

After taping the hell out of the hapless hero, Crane came to a sudden epiphany. Batman, who nobody had ever identified, was unconscious at his feet. He could unmask the legendary Batman, know once and for all, put all suspicions to rest. He could know the real face of the man who insisted on thwarting him, thrashing him, dragging him back to Arkham time and time again.

Holding his breath, acting as though he was reaching for a package he had good reason to suspect contained a bomb, Crane grasped the cowl. A sharp knock on the rear window a second before he could pull froze him. It was the Joker, and the clown looked furious.

"That's my job, Johnny! Nobody unmasks the Bat but me! Get out of there before I blow your face off!"

The Joker was, once again, pointing his gun at Crane. To the Scarecrow, it seemed like a severe over-reaction. The gun pointed at his face, however, kept him from voicing that wise opinion.

"Fine." Grabbing the bags he had put down, ignoring Bud and Lou's silent pleas for petting and praising, Crane left the Batman's identity a secret. His curiosity would gnaw him like a rat, but he wasn't ready to take a bullet in the head to make it stop. Better to let the rat chew now than never chew again.

Crane handed over the bag full of clown-friendly goodies as soon as he was back in the cab. He hoped the Joker would be too busy digging through his treasures to remember he had just been swinging his gun around like a drunken redneck. No such luck.

"What did you think you were doing?" The clown demanded.

"Securing Batman, since you didn't have the insight to." The Scarecrow replied.

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it! What made you think you had the right to take off his mask?"

"Curiosity, and nothing more."

"Curiosity killed the crow, Johnny-boy. I'm taking off that mask when I'm good and ready, and not a second before."

"There's no reason to be so irrational. I concede. You can take the cowl off now, or on your 81st birthday."

"Exactly! And don't forget it!"

Harley peeked over, around her steaming Puddin'. "Sorry, Professor. It's just that Mister J sorta has this whole thing goin' on with B-man. You know, a rivalry. He's real defensive about anyone messin' with his Bat."

"He's insane, Harley. I understand completely."

That earned him a punch to the shoulder. At least it wasn't a punch to the head. Deciding it would be wiser to ignore the injury and not confront the Joker's childish reaction, Crane got the truck in gear and headed away from the ever-so-helpful convenience store.

"On the road again, driving without direction." The Scarecrow noted.

"Turn left. There, there's some direction for you."

The street turned out to be a kingdom of potholes, cracked pavement, and general urban decay. That was one of the great things about Gotham. One minute, you were in a nicely lit, clean, safe environment, the next you were struggling to keep the holes in the street from devouring your car like a Graboid. Even with his prestigious driving skill, picked up from several high-speed pursuits with both the police and Batman, Crane couldn't avoid all, or even most, of the sinkholes.

While the Scarecrow wrestled with the steering wheel and swore to find whoever was in charge of urban renewal projects and lobotomize them, Harley and the Joker had a merry old time. They found the truck's bouncing and jolting exciting, like a cheap theme park ride. The Joker even put his hands in the air, and ordered Crane to go faster so the effects would be more pronounced.

After rattling through the barely paved side street and emerging back into civilization, Crane loosened his strangling grip on the steering wheel. His fingers had begun to cramp up. He wondered if all the shake-rattle-and-rolling hadn't knocked something lose in the truck. Certainly, it felt like his internal organs had been rearranged by the jostling.

"I'd rather drive down the Road of Death than enter that street ever again." The Scarecrow said.

"There's a road of death? I know there's a Psycho Path, but Road of Death is a close second." The Joker said.

"Road of Death is only a nickname. It's really called-"

Something thudded. Crane cursed again, assuming the truck was entering another rough patch of underfunded road. "When I get my hands on the bureaucratic flunky who's in charge of these dismal streets I'm going to…"

The thud came again, and the Scarecrow realized it wasn't originating from underneath the pickup. It was coming from the truck's bed. As confirmation, Bud and Lou began to growl and snarl. Everyone who wasn't driving turned around to peer out the rear window.

"Spooky, we've got a problem."

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Author's Notes:

National Talk like a Pirate Day is September 19.

_I am the Walrus_ is a song by the Beatles. From what I understand, it really only makes sense if you're high, but it's fun to listen to even if you're sober. The chorus includes the phrase 'goo, goo, g'joob'.

The convenience store is modeled after my local Sheetz, which sells both duct tape and lots o' porn.

A Graboid is a thirty-foot worm from the _Tremors_ series. In the original film, a Graboid buries a station wagon.

The Road of Death is really named Yungas Road, and is in Bolivia. Roughly 200-300 people die on it yearly. Hence, Road of Death.

Psycho Path is a real street in Michigan.


	20. Your Bat, My Bat

Thanks for the reviews!

SoSott: Yes, Psycho Path is actually a real street.

Lauralot and J-Horror Girl: Thanks for the sympathies regarding my computer. Starting from scratch does suck.

Sorry this took so long. I got drenched by school-work. It damn near killed me.

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This was worse than hijacking a van, just to find a pair of bright-eyed toddler twins ogling you from their car seats. This was worse than stealing an idling taxi, only to find the back seat occupied by a pissed-off businessman who shouted obscenities in Arabic and threatened to bring the eternal wrath of Allah down on you. This was even worse than finding yourself in the back of a limo with tinted windows, sandwiched between two men who looked suspiciously like Mafia leg-breakers.

"Spooky, do something! Do it now! Do it!"

"He's your bat, you do something!" Crane replied.

"Harley, _you_ do something! Johnny, get this heap parked!"

Crane didn't need to be told twice, or even once. He swerved off the empty road and parallel parked beautifully. Living in Gotham, he had to know how to parallel park a truck in a space drivers from outside the chaotic city would sweat trying to fit their compact sedan in.

Harley dug furiously for anything that could be used as a weapon. She searched under her seat and was rewarded with only a mummified French fry that could have been there for months. Wrenching open the glove compartment, Harley tore through the contents. The only things in there were the rightful owner's insurance and vehicle registration papers and a half-eaten roll of mints.

"Try the bags." Crane advised as he felt around under his own seat.

Forgetting about the empty glove box, Harley grabbed one of the plastic bags and began to shuck things from it. "There's nothin' but candy bars and dirty magazines! Oh, and a coloring book."

"What about the other one?" The Scarecrow knew he was wasting his time. He had robbed a quick mart, not a hardware store. What was he expecting, a hefty wrench, a sledgehammer?

The little box containing his Advil went sailing through the air. Crane made a grab for it; needless to say, he missed. It ricocheted off the window and bounced under his seat. He shouted a word that began with an 'F', ended in 'uck' and wasn't firetruck.

"Tell me about it, Johnny-boy. Harley, why do I not yet have a bludgeon?"

"Mister J, there's nothin' here to use. I guess you roll up _Hustler_ there and beat him with Miss Boobs of the Month, but that's about it."

His fingers skittering around under the seat, trying to locate the Advil, Crane happened upon something else. He touched something that was decidedly not a box or a dried-up French fry. It felt solid, cool, and suspiciously like the weapon Harley couldn't find.

"Clown, will this be of any use?"

The Joker, who was about one second away from using Harley's femur as a weapon, looked over. "Spooky, if not for the fact you are a nerd, I would kiss you. Give me that."

Crane handed over the tire iron. The bludgeon looked right at home in the Joker's hands. Grinning a grin that was even creepier and more off-putting than his usual psycho smile, the clown clambered over Harley. After squashing her against her seat, he was able to escape from the truck. The Scarecrow and harlequin turned to watch events unfold.

_Don't panic. They can smell fear_. _Wait, or is it the Scarecrow who can smell fear? No, he can't smell anything with that mask on. It has to be hyenas. _

Bruce tried desperately to remember where he had learned about the keenness of a hyena's olfactory sense. Was it on a nature documentary? Perhaps he had read it in _National Geographic_. Maybe it had come up in conversation with Alfred.

_Why do I care where I learned it? The only thing I have to worry about is them eating me. How do I prevent that? Think, Bruce. You may have suffered a severe concussion but that will be a pat on the head compared to being torn apart like a baby zebra._

It wasn't like someone had written a_ Surviving Hyena Attacks for Dummies_ book. Batman wracked his injured brain, trying to recall past encounters with Harley's babies. He could remember outraging PETA, and having his cape eaten. Going back farther, he could recall a few encounters that ended with the hyenas limping and Harley chasing him with a mallet.

Bud growled low in his throat, and snapped his jaws. Batman flinched as far back as he could, his head hitting the side of the truck. He felt pain burst through his skull and wished he could black back out. While unconscious, the mutts obviously hadn't attacked. Now that he was awake, and moving, they wanted several bloody pieces of him.

He couldn't see where the two hyenas were, but could only hear their feet pad against the truck bed's liner. He couldn't even shout at them, try to warn them off, because of the tape over his mouth. His hands and feet were bound and, as much as Batman hated to admit it, there was nothing he could do if a hyena suddenly decided to stop posturing and take a bite out of his nose.

"Hey, Bats, enjoying the company?"

That was just _great_. If the risk of being mauled wasn't horrific enough, the Joker had decided to show up. It was like catching malaria while you were already sick with the plague.

Batman listened intently as the Joker made his way to the back of the pickup. The clown lowered the tailgate and climbed aboard. Bruce found his heart beating far quicker than he would have liked. Behind the armor and the mask, Batman was human; he had physical reactions to fear just like every other creature. He just prayed the Joker wouldn't notice the upswing in his breathing.

"He's frightened." Crane said.

Harley squashed her face to the glass, trying to get a good look at Batman. "I don't know, Professor. He just seems kinda mad to me."

"He's incredibly good at hiding it. If I didn't know what to look for, I probably wouldn't find it."

"What do you mean? I'm lookin' but I ain't seein'." Harley said.

"There's a slight tremor to his hands and feet. It's difficult to see with the duct tape, but it's certainly there. I must applaud the Bat's bravery. He's blind, unable to defend himself, and a man he knows to be both insane and sadistic is approaching him, but he's stoic. What I wouldn't give for just an hour or two of research." The Scarecrow said.

"Uh, Professor, I don't know if anybody ever told you this, but you get sorta scary when you talk about human experimentation and stuff like that."

"Sorta scary? I suppose I should take the compliments that I can get."

While Crane was left to puzzle over how to move from 'sorta scary' to 'Jesus Christ I'm going to die of fear right here and now', the Joker was forced to deal with Bud and Lou. The two hyenas wanted to eat off at least one or two facial features. The Joker believed he had a right to do any and all maiming. Jimmy Carter was not available for peace negotiations.

"What part of _my_ bat don't you people, uh, mutts, understand? Get out of the way before I have you sold to the French as fine cutlets! They eat dogs in France, and if they don't, they'll make an exception in your cases."

When the two hyenas showed all the movement of a petrified stump, the Joker swung the tire iron over their heads as a warning. Being threatened with solid metal objects was something they understood. Whimpering, Bud and Lou dashed from the truck and came scratching at the passenger door. Before Crane could say anything, two scavengers were eagerly pushing their muzzles into every nook and cranny in the truck.

"They're invading my personal space!" The Scarecrow wailed as Bud's furry butt plopped down in his lap. The hyena, asides from mistaking Crane for a seat, was also under the impression that scarecrows just adored being bathed in germ-infested saliva.

"Quiet in the peanut gallery! That means you, Lord of the Nerds."

"For the love of God, not another nickname. Bud, quick, go for the jugular. Right here, this vein, just one nip, please!"

The hyena slobbered all over the spot on his throat Crane was pointing to. He struggled, but couldn't dislodge well over 100 pounds of laughing meat. Unable to get the hyena to play Dr. Kevorkian or to go away, the Scarecrow was forced to sit there and grumble about it. He was quickly becoming a master in the art of griping, it seemed.

"Sorry, Bats. Johnny's needy. As in, he needs to shut up, or I'll need to break a few of his fingers. Now, where were we? Oh, right. You'd just returned to the world of the awake. Have a nice sleep?" The Joker asked.

Batman muttered something against the duct tape that might have been "it was beautiful and reinvigorating" but probably wasn't. It was quite hard to tell, as everything he said sounded like something that would come out of the mouth of a Neanderthal. The Joker wasn't dissuaded by his good bat buddy's lack of understandable communication, and plowed on merrily.

"You're probably wondering where you are, what I plan to do with you, and why a man of my stature would even associate with a geek of Johnny's caliber. Well, I can answer one of those questions. You're in the back of a truck. It's nice truck, a proud shade of purple, plenty of air in the tires, and nary a ding or scratch to be had, except for the holes in the windshield. The license plate number is, uh, something with a G and a 7 in it. Any other specifics you're dying to know?"

When he finally got out of this, he was going to thrash the Joker so hard the remains Arkham got would be small enough to bury in a matchbox. Bruce was determined to live long enough to knock all the Joker's teeth out so the clown would never be able to smile again. Forget justice, peace, saving Gotham and all that crap. He just wanted violence.

"No? You don't care about Johnny's truck? That's downright _rude_, Bats."

The clown took a step forward. Batman tensed, wishing he could get a precise idea of exactly where the Joker was. His ears were sharp, but certainly not as sharp as a real bat's would have been. What he wouldn't give right now for a little of his namesake's natural sonar.

"But I can't expect a man dressed as a flying rat to have any manners. You can't exactly write to _Dear Abby_ and ask her how a man who hangs upside down in a cave all day is supposed to interact with people. She'd think you were batty!"

"His puns make me physically ill. Tell me, child, why haven't they killed you yet? You've been exposed to them for years." Scarecrow said.

Harley shrugged. "I think most of 'em are pretty funny. The bat ones are startin' to wear a little thin 'cause of overuse, but I'm sure Mister J will think of some new material."

"You place far too much faith on him, you know. He isn't fit for human cohabitation." Crane said.

"Don't say that so loud! One time, this shrink at Arkham said the same thing, and the next morning they found parts of him in the cafeteria food and the coffee pot in the nurse's lounge." Harley said.

"Ah, yes, I do seem to recall someone pitching a fit over that. Was is the notorious finger in the chili incident? "

"Yep."

"As if the food wasn't bad enough on its own. Speaking of rancid things, Harley, would you mind removing Bud? His weight is displacing my internal organs."

"Come here to Mommy, Bud. Give her some kisses."

The hyena spring-boarded off Crane and began to assail Harley with loving slobber. The Scarecrow wished he had some Purell sanitizer handy. When he finally got away from the Joker, the first thing he was going to do was take a proper bath.

Harley's joyful frolicking ruined the Joker's mood. It was difficult to threaten your adversary when your girlfriend was squealing like Wilbur the pig. The cackling hyenas weren't contributing to an oppressive atmosphere of evil, either.

"One second, Bats. Harley! Shut up before I come in there and stuff that hyena down your throat!"

Harley clapped a hand over her own mouth, and covered Bud's snout with her other. The hyena eagerly licked the hand, and Crane could tell by the way Harley was writhing that it tickled madly. The things people did with their pets; it was truly astounding.

"I work with such incompetence. Let's get back on track. We're taking a road trip, all of us, like one big happy family. Only, I don't like it when the kiddy, that's going to be you, asks if we're there yet. So, here's how it's going to play out. If you do so much as sneeze, I'm going to do a lot worse than turn on music from the 50's and make you listen to it until we get where we're going. Got it, Bats?" The Clown Prince asked.

Bruce gave a definitive answer. He swung his bound legs at the Joker, hoping to knock the clown off balance. Unfortunately, the extra weight of the duct tape made the attack about as effective as flicking balls of paper at a tank. The Joker took a leisurely step backwards and was well out of range of Batman's conjoined legs.

"Okay, Bats. It's one thing to be rude to Johnny. I actually encourage that. It's another thing to try to trip me. For that, I'm going to have to fine you. Let' see, I don't think you carry around Bat-dollars, or Bat-rupees or Bat-drachmas, or whatever currency you use, so I'll have to take something else. I don't want your boots; they seem to be about, oh, six sizes too big. On a normal day I'd take the cape and pretend I was Superman, but it's half-eaten. That leaves the utility belt."

There was no way in Hell the Joker was taking his utility belt! Batman could just imagine the sick things the Joker would do with the various gadgets. The clown would doubtlessly go around the city, nailing people in the head with the batarangs just to see what damage they could do to an unprotected face. God help Gotham if the clown figured out how to use the grappling gun. He'd swing around like some insane version of Tarzan, peeking in on unsuspecting citizens, stealing flowers from window boxes and replacing them with the kind that squirted acid, and harassing entire apartment buildings.

"And now the Joker's attempting to remove Batman's pants. Hmm. I can't say I didn't have my suspicions. Any man that can find a way to force purple and green to coexist must be slightly queer at best." Crane noted.

"Uh, Professor, I think he's just tryin' to get the utility belt. Mister J's always wanted to play with it." Harley said.

"Really? I don't think I want to be around the Joker when he's playing with a new toy. I've bled enough today. Tell him he isn't bringing a weapon he has no idea how to use up here or he can find a new chauffeur." The Scarecrow said.

"I'll bring this belt in there and I'll choke you with it if I want, Spooky! You're going to drive until we either find a hideout or until you drop dead." The Joker said.

"How can his hearing be this sharp? Hasn't he been in the proximity of dozens of explosions? His auditory ability should be on par with someone who followed The Who on a cross-country tour." Crane said.

The Joker wasn't going to divulge his medical records. Nor was he going to be doing any strangling, at least not until he got the belt free. His tugging had proved ineffective, and Batman certainly wasn't going to help his hated foe get the utility belt off.

"Does this thing have some Bat belt buckle I'm not seeing or did you super-glue it to your pants? I wouldn't recommend that, by the way. I've super-glued my hand to places I won't get into detail about. Let's just say I ended up with a bald spot."

Harley giggled, and not just because Bud was tickling her with his tongue. "I remember that. Poor Mister J. It was worse than seein' a guy get his really hairy chest waxed."

"Christ hitchhiking on the highway. I've got images in my mind that would make my ancestors sick." Crane said.

While Harley remembered her Puddin' and his many accidents with adhesives, the Joker finally got the belt off. Batman swore at him, but the duct tape proved a fine censor. Holding the belt above his head like some pro wrestler who'd just won an obviously staged championship match, the Joker did a little celebratory gig.

"My Puddin's so cute when he dances. He could be on _America's Got Talent_." Harley gushed.

"And when he lost to some frumpy female singer, he could just blow up everyone. Then he could be on _America's Most Wanted_. It would be his what, twentieth appearance?"

"Eighteenth, actually." Harley corrected.

"I cry your pardon."

The Joker eventually got tired of dancing and lowered the belt. He couldn't wait to start experimenting with the various doodads, pouches, and gizmos. It was like Christmas had come early, and Santa had been too drunk on spiked eggnog to realize he had delivered a WMD into the hands of a lunatic.

"One more thing, Bats."

Batman growled, and that came out clear enough despite the duct tape. He didn't care what the Joker wanted. The bastard had stolen his belt!

The tire iron, neglected while the Joker had battled the belt, was back in the clown's hands. Harley sensed impending brain splatter, and moved to cover Bud and Lou's eyes. Crane opened his mouth to point out how utterly savage hyenas were, how sometimes in the wild they started eating their prey before it stopped breathing, and then decided against it. Telling Harley things was like trying to change the ways of a 75 year old Republican Senator from the Deep South. It was never going to do anything of significant value.

Luckily, the Joker didn't bash Batman's brains in. That would ruin the fun before it started, of course. Taking the mask off a broken corpse wouldn't even come near the excitement of taking it off a man who could suffer implications. There were things the Joker could do, or threaten to do, to a living Bat that he couldn't with a dead one.

Instead of swinging at Bruce's head, the Joker jabbed him in the chest with the tire iron. Through the armor, Batman couldn't quite tell what he was being poked with. It certainly felt heavy, perhaps a crowbar or other prying instrument. Whatever it was, it was the epitome of lethal in the clown's hands.

"Do you have some secret love-nest where you shack up with Catwoman?"

_That's _what the clown wanted to know?! Batman shook his head. He tried not to wonder if rumors involving his sex life floated around Arkham, but the thoughts came unbidden. Dirty, unpleasant thoughts, Batman had learned, had a way of pushing their way into your head, and the harder you tried to keep them out, the harder they banged on the door. Bad thoughts were like incredibly annoying door-to-door salesmen or Jehovah's Witnesses. They weren't going to leave your front porch until you opened the door and acknowledged them.

"No? Well that's a shame. I would have liked a tour of your den of debauchery. I bet it would be a lot more fun than Johnny's house." The Joker laughed.

"If he hated it so much, he should have just left!" Crane grumbled.

"But that's all right. We'll get somewhere soon enough. Just sit back and relax, Batty. Because if you decide to start thumping around, I'll have to do this." The tire iron connected with Batman's head hard enough to bring exploding stars to his eyes. "Only much harder."

Satisfied, the Joker hopped merrily from the truck, stolen belt in one hand, tire iron in the other. He walked back to the cab, threw a fit when he noticed Bud and Lou had taken over his spot, and banished both hyenas to the back of the truck. After the mutts were secured and growling at Batman, the Joker took his seat.

"That was all very productive, but did you happen to finally have a destination in mind?" Crane asked.

"I wonder what this button does. Whoa, it makes this thing light up. What does that light do?"

The Joker was lost in the magical mystery of Batman's utility belt. He would be, as always, useless to Crane. With no other option, the Scarecrow put the truck in drive and turned it back onto the road. They'd have to find something, an abandoned crack house, another foreclosure, an unlocked shed in a backyard.

He'd even take, the Scarecrow had to concede, that refrigerator box in the alley, smelly dog and all.

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Author's Notes:

Jimmy Carter won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002.

As far as I know, they do not eat dogs in France.

Dr. Kevorkian is famous (or infamous) for aiding in physician-assisted suicides.

Wilbur is the pig from _Charlotte's Web_.

Rupees are the currency of India, drachmas of Greece.

The Who held the world record for Loudest Concert for 10 years.


	21. Heavy Metal Tsunami

Thanks for the reviews, everybody!

I do have a little announcement to make. This story is winding down and coming to an end. I see one or two more chapters. Three is highly unlikely. Thanks for sticking with it this far.

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"What do you think this thing does?"

"Maybe it orders pizza, beer and hot wings. How in the hell should any of us know what that thing does? It isn't like I've had a proper laboratory and ample days to analyze the belt." Crane replied.

"Yeesh, Johnny. Do you always get this angry when you haven't slept?"

"No, only when I've been repeatedly tortured throughout the day, and then forced to drive around aimlessly with my two least favorite people."

The Joker muttered something under his breath and went back to fiddling with the stolen utility belt. Crane considered asking what the clown had mumbled, and decided he didn't care. If the Joker was quiet, the Scarecrow had no intention of riling him back up.

With her Puddin' happily playing with his new toy and the Scarecrow hunched over the wheel and obviously not in the mood to talk, Harley was feeling lonely. She didn't particularly like silence. That was one of the reasons she clung to the Joker: he wasn't even quiet when he slept. He snored and sometimes giggled even when he was tucked in for the night. One time, he performed a whole comedy routine while asleep.

"Can I turn on the radio?" Harley asked.

"Must you?" The Scarecrow asked.

"I like listenin' to music when I'm in a car. Please, Professor Crane? _Please_?" Harley flashed him big, blue puppy eyes.

"Fine."

"Yippee!"

Harley eagerly pressed the power button for the radio. Tsunamis of heavy metal music flooded the truck. The 'singer', if the satanic growls coming from the speakers were indeed a song, sounded more like a wild animal than a man. The Joker threw his hands over his ears, Crane winced, and Harley hurriedly turned down the volume.

"Change the channel!" The Joker snapped.

Harley played with the dial, cruising through the stations. She found a strange talk-radio host who seemed obsessed with aliens, UFO's and the ever-popular close encounters of the fourth kind. He wasn't in the least bit occupied with encounters of the first, second, or third degree. After listening to a caller who claimed aliens had violently molested not only him, but his neighbor, his cousin Horace, and his high school science teacher, Crane begged Harley to find something else.

At one in the morning, it seemed only oldies and nut-jobs were on the radio. Disappointed, Harley turned it off. That creeping silence soon filled the cab.

"Professor, wanna play a word association game?"

Afraid of receiving a lethal dose of cuteness from another attack of puppy eyes if he refused, Crane said, "Yes."

"You're a real sport, you know that? Okay, let's see. The first word is hyena."

"Slobber."

"I was thinkin' cuddly, but okay. How 'bout sandwich?"

"Bologna."

"Moon?"

"Werewolf."

"Mister J?"

"Bastard."

"I'm sitting right here! I can hear you insulting me, Mop Man."

"Inconsiderate, evil, cruel, vile, inhuman, diseased, insane, frightfully pale, freakish, abnormal, hyper-active, senseless-"

The Joker jabbed the Scarecrow in the ribs. "Shut up, Spooky, or I'll toss you back there with the mutts and the Bat."

"Don't bother, I'll go willingly. Batman can't possibly be any worse than you. At least he's quiet." Crane replied.

"Well, since you want to go, you can just sit there and drive."

"Is your sole goal in life making me miserable? Because you're doing an unparalleled job of it." The Scarecrow said.

"No, I also want to destroy Gotham, find out who Batman is, raise a flock of emus and learn how to make peach-flavored Gelato. You're just one of many, many goals I have, so stop feeling so important."

While Crane wondered if maybe crashing the truck into a building wouldn't be the best course of action, Batman was developing a plan. The way he figured it, if the hyenas' jaws were strong enough to chew through the Space Age material of his cape, they should be able to bite through duct tape. If he could just get the hyenas to sever enough of the tape from his hands and forearms, he would be able to finish the job. With his arms free, it wouldn't be difficult to get the duct tape off his eyes, mouth, and feet. If he could accomplish all that without the Joker turning around and shooting him in the face, Batman supposed he could just shatter the rear window, reach through, and yank the clown through the hole. Then he could snap the Joker's arms off.

Reduced to relying solely on his hearing, Batman tried to pinpoint the hyenas' location. They were shuffling around, probably eying him like a choice cut in the supermarket. One of them snorted slightly to his left, and Batman thrust his bound arms at it.

Lou growled sharply and bit onto the offending limb thrown in his face. Bud, whose mind sometimes seemed partly-conjoined with Lou's, decided to join the attack. He snapped at Batman's arms and began to heartily gnaw on them.

"Shut up back there. I'm trying to work here." The Joker said.

After destroying Johnny's spirits, the Joker had gone back to tinkering with the utility belt. He had just managed to free one of the batarangs and was entranced by it. The clown had had guns, bombs, knives and a whole assortment of other items knocked out of his hands by batarangs, and he was eager for a close-up view.

"Harley, why don't I have anything this nice? Look at the craftsmanship! It's _shiny_!" The Joker said.

"You can't have nice things; you always burn them, break them over peoples' heads, or leave them on the couch and forget about them." Crane said.

"I asked Harley, not you. Did you suddenly decide to change your name, Mop Man? If you did, change it back. I only need one Harley, thank you very much." The Joker said.

Crane was going to point out that the world needed even fewer Jokers, but then remembered that every single point he had tried to make had been utterly ignored. He was wasting his energy and his breath. From now on, the Scarecrow was just going to play the quiet game.

Batman could feel the teeth worrying and scraping at his gloves and decided to hyenas had done enough damage to the tape. He yanked his arms back, nearly taking a few of Lou's teeth with him. Praying the tape had been chewed up enough, Batman pulled his arms apart will every bit of strength he could manage. What was the point of all those pushups if he couldn't even break some stupid tape?

Duct tape proved to be no match for Batman's determination and well-developed forearms. He clumsily removed the clinging chunks of tape from his fingers, hands, and wrists before pulling the strips from his eyes and mouth. Now that he could see, it was just a matter of removing the coil of tape from around his ankles. Whoever had tied him up—probably Crane because the doctor was thorough to the point of aggravation—had used enough duct tape to stretch from Gotham to the Florida panhandle.

Bud and Lou, seeing their enemy was mobile, started to make a racket. They snapped at Batman, though he was now able to hit their muzzles and keep them at bay. When nobody paid attention to just growling, the mutts began to laugh. Harley _always_ came running when her Babies got the giggles.

"Harl, shut them up. They're ruining my jolly mood." The Joker said.

And did he ever have reason to be jolly. He had just found the Bat-cuffs. They were quite a bit cooler than the average bracelets the coppers clapped him in, because these were shaped like bats. The Joker would have rubbed his hands together in villainous glee had his fingers not been too busy playing with his newest jewelry.

"Babies, what's got your tails in a- Eek!"

"What is it? Holy llamas of the Bahamas! Spooky, brake it now! Brake, brake, brake!"

Crane stomped on the brakes, the tires squealed, and the entire truck jerked to a violent stop. Bud, Lou and Batman, none of them secured by seat belts, were thrown in a heap against the cab. Batman had the misfortune of being the bottom of the heap. The two hyenas, who weighed nearly 300 pound combined, compressed him beneath their furry bulk.

"I think I've got whiplash. Clown, so help me, you'll be getting a bill from my chiropractor." The Scarecrow grumbled.

"Shut up, Johnny. The Bat's loose."

"Don't even tell me that!"

"I all ready did."

"What're we gonna do about him?" Harley asked.

The Joker dropped the cuffs and picked up his trusted tire iron. "I'm going to play Whack-a-Bat with his head."

Once again pushing past Harley, the Joker climbed out of the truck. The clown had hardly closed his door when Lou fell out of the sky and landed on his head. Both clown and hyena went down on the pavement. Harley shouted in outrage and shook her fist at Batman.

"Get in the driver's seat." Crane said.

Harley looked at him as though he had asked her to help him build a spaceship destined for Planet X. "Why? Where're you goin', Professor?"

"This day will not end with me going back to Arkham. I absolutely refuse. I'm going back there to help the Joker. When I tell you to hit the gas, no matter what else is happening, you're going to develop the most severe case of lead foot ever." The Scarecrow said.

"But what if-"

"I don't care if a puppy, a schoolboy, the President, and a wheelchair-bound World War II veteran are sitting in the middle of the road! You will run them over, Harleen Quinzel!"

Harley gulped and nodded. Nobody had used the name on her birth certificate in quite some time. Even the head-shrinkers at Arkham called her Harley. Professor Crane must have meant seriously serious business.

"Good. Remember, child, no matter what."

Crane grabbed the Bat-cuffs and the utility belt. Maybe he could use a batarang as a weapon, stab Batman in the throat or the eyes with it. If not, he supposed the belt, laden with some tools that looked like they had come from the starship _Enterprise_, could be cracked over Batman's head. The Scarecrow knew from experience that even a little tap to an abused head could send a person reeling in agony.

The Joker finally managed to get Lou's wriggling carcass off him. The hyena rolled onto his back and his legs began to flail like those of an overturned tortoise or beetle. It appeared Lou had fallen and had no plans of getting up.

"Lose some weight, Lou! Oh, back spasms, I'm going to need to borrow Johnny's chiropractor." The Joker moaned.

With one hyena tossed out of the truck, Batman turned his attention to the remaining mutt. Bud snarled, showing teeth that could probably tear through tank armor. Bruce wondered if he could grab hold of Bud as he had Lou without getting shredded, and decided the hyena was smart enough to see any tricks coming. He'd have to avoid the hyena's bite best he could until he could remove the tape from his feet and gain full mobility.

"Clown, why are you hunched over like an old man?"

The Joker glared at him. "I was hit by a furry 500 pound meteorite. I'm lucky it didn't kill me."

"Lou's not 500 pounds; he probably doesn't top 150."

"Spooky, just shut up before I play Whack-a-_Crow_ with your head." The clown said.

"I did come to assist you, since the Bat appeared to be making a fool out of you. If, however, you'd rather face him alone, I'll stand back and watch." The Scarecrow said.

"Nobody makes a fool out of me! A joker, yes, but never a fool!"

Miraculously cured of his spinal woes, the Joker stood straight up. "Try not to get in my way, Mop Man."

Showing how spry he was, the Joker unlatched the pickup's tailgate and then hopped backwards to let the gate fall. Batman stopped trying stare Bud down and looked past the hyena. He saw the Joker, tire iron in hand, standing next to the Scarecrow, who was masked and holding Batman's utility belt. For some reason, seeing Crane with the belt didn't fill Batman with the same desire to smash as when the Joker had it.

"Hi again, Bat-brain. Didn't I tell you to sit back and enjoy the ride? I distinctly remember warning you that I'd have to come back here and put a hole in your skull if you didn't behave." The Clown Prince said.

"Actually entering the brain cavity would certainly disable him, and in all likelihood result in his death." Crane muttered.

Talking out the side of his mouth so the Bat wouldn't hear him, the Joker replied, "Someone's death is going to get resulted in."

"Don't take English lessons from George W. Bush." Crane said, loudly enough for Batman to hear. Unless the Scarecrow was mistaken, the hero hadn't been quite able to hide his smirk. Let the Joker ruminate on that for a while; Jonathan Crane, widely regarded to possess no sense of humor whatsoever, had coerced a smile from Batman, who was also reputed to have no facial expressions except a frown.

The Joker wasn't a particularly reflective man. He was certainly never joining the ranks of Henry David Thoreau or Charles Sanders Peirce. Finding nothing funny in the situation laid out before him, and not bothering to consider the irony, the Joker jabbed Crane in the side with the tire iron. Causing the Scarecrow pain seemed to be the logical solution to many of life's problems.

"I think you broke a rib!" Crane moaned.

"Shut up or I'll break something important."

"Ribs are important!"

"Yeah, I guess they are. I like mine slathered in BBQ sauce and slowly roasted over a wood fire for hours. Mmm, slab of beef."

"You're inhuman."

"And you're just getting that now?"

The Scarecrow wanted to throw a tantrum, swear vigorously, and fall down into an inescapable black hole of unalloyed misery and woe. Just the thought of howling, waving his fist at the cruel universe and rolling back and forth on the ground while sobbing seemed to drain him of energy, though. Besides that, he didn't want to suffer a full-scale mental breakdown in front of Batman. Or the Joker. Definitely not the Joker. The clown would spread the news around Arkham faster than a diseased child infected his entire class with chicken pox. The Master of Fear would quickly be reduced to the Weepy Teenage Girl or The Master of Tears, or something equally mortifying.

"Johnny-boy, I can't see your face under Spooky Junior, but I bet you're down in the dumps, huh? How about this? I knock Batman out, and then we buy you ice cream. Would that make you feel better?" The Joker asked.

"No. Ice cream would make me feel better if I was four years old and lost my toy truck in the sandbox. A heavy dose of morphine, as well as seeing you savaged by a polar bear might do the trick, however." Crane replied.

"What kind of creature turns down free ice cream? Spooky, what planet were you beamed down from?"

"Your mind is grossly retarded."

"Hey, don't use the R-word. You'll offend the dummies."

"Dummy, he's getting the tape off!" Crane exclaimed.

The Joker looked like he was going to clock the Scarecrow over the head for his insults, but decided to take care of his bat problems first. Crane wasn't going anywhere; there would be plenty of time later to punish him. Maybe the Joker could even find a frighteningly muscular dimwit, such as the kind he always recruited to help him in heists and various dirty deeds, and let the un-evolved ape smack Spooky around.

Damn duct tape and its infernal stickiness and strength. Sure, he'd used it to do everything from emergency surgery on gushing pipes to hastily repair a table so Alfred wouldn't know he had accidentally karate-chopped it in half. Now all those miraculous repairs were nothing but reminders of how quickly something as genuinely good as duct tape could be corrupted into something that might just get him killed. While he was in the mood for damning things, damn the Joker, too!

"Bud, get out of here! Shoo, scram, scoot, vamoose, hit the highway, you get the picture." The Joker said.

The hyena reacted as he normally did when the Joker tried to order him around. He plopped down, yawned at the clown, and scratched himself rhythmically with his foot. Batman was grateful Bud understood the art of being an antagonist to the Joker's plans. He'd have to go easy on the hyena the next time the beast tried to maul him.

Crane watched with smug amusement as the Joker tried without success to coax Bud out of the way. The mutt's butt was firmly planted between the psycho and the vigilante, and showed no signs of moving.

The Scarecrow was not about the yell "Babies!" and make kissy noises, but he did know another way to move Bud. He whistled and rattled the utility belt. Bud's ears pricked up, he rose off his ass, and flew off the lowered tailgate like a Labrador retriever off a dock.

Batman growled with indignation when he saw Crane throw the hyena his belt. That belt held some of the most advanced gadgets on the planet, and now it was nothing but a high-end chew toy! To make matters worse, the Joker now had nothing to obstruct him.

"Those hairballs do love Spooky more than me! After all I've done for them, they run off with that scrawny nerd. Maybe they think he's a stick, and they just want to play fetch with him. What do you think, Bats? Any insight into the mind of a hyena?"

"I'll ask the _Gotham Times_ to run an opinion poll. I'm sure most of Gotham would say it likes the Scarecrow more, as well." Batman said.

"But he's a _nerd_! When did the world stop liking the class clown and start honoring the people it used to stuff in lockers and hang from the flagpole by their underwear?" The Joker whined.

"Probably the second or third time the class clown blew up the animal shelter, introduced killer laughing gas into the neonatal ward at Gotham General, and stole a truckload of Girl Scout cookies." Crane said.

"For your information,I only ever stole one truckload of Girl Scout cookies, and they were all those peanut butter things nobody likes. Of course, I would have eaten them anyway just so those little brats couldn't get them back, but a certain someone had to get in my way. Three guesses as to who that someone is." The Joker said.

"Batman?" The Scarecrow ventured.

"No, actually, Commissioner Gordon. Next time I see him, I'm going to shave his moustache so he looks like Hitler." The Joker replied.

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard in my life."

The Joker actually seemed put off. "Really, _the_ stupidest? Even worse than Ivy's feminazi plant spiels and those conversations the Hatter has with his tea set? There's no way I can be stupider than "it doesn't matter if it's _green_, it's still _alive_", no way."

"Oh, it's absolutely worse. I'd rather join Green Peace and E.L.F. than listen to your grand plans to shave the Commissioner."

"You're going to turn into a hippie, too?"

"No, I'm not going to turn into a hippie! I'm simply stating that, if forced between becoming a human green bean, or listening to you prattle, I'd rather paint a pink peace sign on my face and protest whaling."

"I'd rather eat a whale."

"That's not the point!"

"Well loop me in, Johnny, because I'm lost."

"You're an idiot, that's the point."

"Don't call me and idiot in front of Batman. Your bad behavior might rub off on him. Right, Bats?"

Batman's only reply was to drive his fist into the clown's unsuspecting face. He had finally managed to liberate himself, and was he ever pissed.

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Author's Notes: A close encounter of the fourth kind is an alien abduction.

"Holy llamas of the Bahamas!" is an exclamation from the show _Futurama_.

The _Enterprise _is the spaceship from _Star Trek_. I'm sure most people literate in the Internet didn't need to be told that. We're all nerds here, I suppose.

George Bush, who brought us such gems as: "Wow, Brazil is big", "Is our children learning" and "Whether or not it needed to happen, I'm still convinced it needed to happen".

Henry David Thoreau was a Transcendentalist most famous for writing _Walden_. Charles Sanders Peirce helped create the Pragmatism movement.

Feminazi is a derogatory term made by joining Nazi and Feminist and was popularized by Rush Limbaugh. I swear, I won't use any of that _hijo de puta_'s phrases again.

E.L.F stands for the Earth Liberation Front. They're a radical group of environmentalists that like to burn down SUV dealerships and tip over radio towers.

The next update might take a little time. I just got _Under the Dome_, Stephen King's new book, and that baby is huge. Freaking huge!


	22. Authentic Nunchucks

Thanks for all the reviews. You guys always impress me so much.

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The Joker dropped his tire iron and staggered backwards, rocked by the shattering blow delivered via express-mail directly to his face. Batman, despite being so knocked around, wasn't slowed in the least. Being angrier than he could remember being in years probably had something to do with it. Given the proper emotional cattle prod, people found themselves capable of ignoring a lot of pain.

"Bats, I think I'm going to need a dentist." The Joker said.

"You're going to need an iron lung by the time I'm done with you!" Batman roared.

Not wanting to spend time either having his teeth replaced or breathing through a machine, the Joker did something he was quite talented at. He ran for cover. Unfortunately, the only available cover seemed to be behind Crane's back.

"No, don't draw me into this!" The Scarecrow shouted.

"Shut up and provide protection, Spooky!" The Joker said. Under better circumstances, Crane would have given the clown another taste of his mighty middle finger before dashing down the street and away from Batman's aura of pure wrath. As was, due to a combination of forced insomnia and a prodigious number of injuries, Crane couldn't move much quicker than the average zombie. The Joker was able to reach him and duck behind what little defense the disgraced psychologist's slight frame offered.

Batman, his hands curled into fists that he was obviously itching to smash someone's face to pieces with, approached the Scarecrow. Crane, not knowing what else to do, threw his hands into the air in the universal gesture of surrender.

"I don't like him any more than you do. Take him, please. Just don't kill me, none of this was my idea, the clown shot me, you were there, it was like that all day, he made me steal ice cream, I don't even _like _ice cream, I much prefer custard and-"

"You're babbling. Shut your mouth before something flies in." Batman said.

Taking 'something' to mean 'my fist', Crane's yap-trap firmly closed. He did not want to get on Batman's bad side, not when the hero was wearing a weapons-grade frown.

"Now step away from the clown."

Acknowledging the order with a slight nod, Crane took a step to his left. His shirt was instantly seized by the collar. The Joker yanked him backward, preventing him from escaping his role as a human shield.

Asides from being pulled around as though he was some sort of dog on a leash, the Scarecrow was soon subject to another indignity. Since there were no happy-go-lucky school children handy and all the respectable old ladies had retired hours ago, the Joker was forced to use a less innocent hostage. Keeping one hand wound firmly in Crane's shirt, the Joker used his free hand to extract his gun from a coat pocket.

"All right, Bats. One step closer and Johnny loses all his marbles."

Batman froze. With a gun muzzle pressed against his temple, Crane also decided to keep movement to a minimum. As he well knew, the Joker had a severely itchy trigger finger.

"Put the gun down." Batman growled.

"Uh, no. See, if I were to do that, you'd beat me to a pulp. If I keep it like so, you stay way over there. Unless you've been taking lessons from _Space Jam_, your fist can't reach all the way over here. Get it?" The Joker asked.

"Clown, do you think you could ease up just a bit?" Crane said quietly.

"What's the matter, Spooky?"

"You don't need to _dig_ the gun into my skull. I think you've hurt my brain enough for one day."

"But it's one o'clock. A new day's begun. I hurt you a lot yesterday; this is the first pain I've caused you today. Now shut up and be a good hostage before I give some stray your brains for breakfast."

Sickened by the image of some mangy dog or feral cat sniffing his brain pâté, Crane stopped complaining and just tried to ignore the pressure against his head. It was like trying to ignore the whine of a dentist's drill against sensitive teeth.

After several minutes in limbo with no one daring to do so much as sigh or scratch his nose no matter how bad it itched, the game got old. The Scarecrow shifted his feet, trying to gain even a little leverage against the pistol. He doubted if the Joker would really shoot him. After all, he wasn't much use to the clown as a corpse. His breathing body prevented Batman from doing anything rash; his dead body would serve as a momentary distraction at best.

"Johnny, do you not grasp what 'hold still' means? Do I need to draw you a diagram?" The Joker asked.

"No, I understand, but this is just stupid. You're stuck in a classic Mexican standoff. You might be content to stand here until morning rush hour and someone runs us over, but I'm not. Stop dicking around and force this to a conclusion!" The Scarecrow said.

"Dicking." The Joker chuckled.

"You watched an obscene amount of Mike Judge cartoons in the early 1990's didn't you?" Crane asked.

"Johnny-boy, I watched a lot of cartoons, period." The clown said. "Watched them then, watch them now."

"I never believed television rotted brains, though you may swing my opinion." Crane said.

The Joker yanked hard on the collar of Crane's shirt, choking him. "My hostages don't smart-mouth me. If they do, their loved ones get them back in boxes small enough to bury Cocker Spaniels in. Since you don't have any loved ones to bury you, you'd better just shut up."

That hurt. The Scarecrow had never been adept at forming human bonds--doing so would make it quite difficult to spray an unsuspecting person in the face with a highly toxic drug and then study the effects--but being told he was utterly unloved still pricked a part of his heart. Crane wondered who, if anyone, would claim his body should he die here. Maybe Poison Ivy would use him for compost or Tetch would stuff him like Norman Bates' taxidermy menagerie and have tea with his preserved corpse. That was a charming image.

Batman was _not_ going to admit any love for the Scarecrow, but he did feel a slight tinge of pity. The Joker was a bastard. It was obvious Crane wasn't in any sort of shape to fight back, either physically or verbally, yet the clown refused to stop tormenting him. Maybe, when Bruce finally got his hands on the Joker, he'd knock out a few extra teeth for Crane.

"Now, all _dicking_—what a great word—aside, Johnny's right. I'm tired and I'm getting kind of hungry, and it's well past Harley's bedtime. So, here's the deal. You surrender or I start hurting Spooky. The longer you glare at me, the harder I hit him. Oh, and I'm starting with the head."

"You son of a mother-" Crane began.

The Joker rapped him on the head. "However you were going to finish that sentence, it would be inappropriate for the ears of Bats and hyenas."

Reeling, the Scarecrow stumbled forward. He would have likely fallen to his knees if not for the hold the Joker still had on his shirt. As was, he slumped forward like a tree partially uprooted by a storm and simply waiting for a last gust to finish it off.

"Well, Bats? Feel like waving the white flag or do you want to see how much my pet nerd can take before he breaks?"

"Don't touch him again." Batman growled.

"Tough break, Spooky. Looks like the Bat might have a sadistic side. I should have guessed. He was pretty eager to rough me up."

Since he was relying on the clown simply to stand, Crane couldn't exactly dodge whatever blow might be coming. He wished he could curl up like an armadillo, but his severe lack of armor-plating made that likewise impossible. The only thing the Scarecrow could do was hang there like a piñata and hope he passed out from the impending pain.

This had to violate his moral codes. Standing by, selfishly, while a man was beaten about the head did not constitute heroic behavior. Of course, charging in like a hormonal bull rhinoceros and getting that man shot in the head wasn't exactly going to earn him the keys to the city, either.

The Joker raised his gun, preparing to club Crane like a baby seal. Oh, screw weighing the options. He was not going to watch the Scarecrow get walloped.

Batman leapt at the clown, hoping to startle him into dropping his hostage and running for it. Unusually steady, the Joker turned his weapon on the rapidly approaching hero and shot at him. The bullet missed by centimeters and chipped the pavement. Given a few weeks of heavy traffic, that slight crack in the street would mutate into a sizeable pothole.

In some parts of Gotham, gunshots were as common as cockroaches and an accepted part of the landscape. In this particular neighborhood, a majority of the drive-by shootings were committed by teenagers armed with Super Soakers and the remaining attacks were perpetrated by drunken college kids and their paintball guns. Gunfire in the middle of the night was not going to be waved off and ignored.

Seconds after the initial discharge, several lights popped on. Windows were thrown open, heads appeared in the windows, and the street was searched by sleep-dimmed eyes. Several heads retreated momentarily and reappeared with glasses on.

Ignorant of the peeping heads, Batman tackled the Joker. Since Crane was still hanging around, that made him the unlucky meat in a bat-and-clown sandwich. The two villains, plus their much reviled flying friend, ended up on the ground.

"Hey, Bill, what's going on down there?"

"If you bastards shot any of my stuff, I'm gonna chop your 'nads off!"

"Holy shit, that's Batman and he's fighting the Joker! Damn, where's my camera? I'm gonna be the God of YouTube. Keyboard Cat, eat your heart out."

While several citizens searched for cameras or cell phones, others more worried about the possible destruction and loss of life and limbs phoned the police or reached for their own weapons. An old woman grabbed the broom she used regularly to chase hooligans away. A man with an irrational fear of rogue killer samurai warriors produced an authentic pair of nunchucks from under his bed.

Harley watched with growing trepidation as the first people began to venture out on their lawns and porches. Many were holding some sort of recording device, and a few were holding sports equipment that could double as blunt instruments such as baseball bats and croquet mallets. One fellow, visiting the States for the first time (and never to return if _this_ was what Americans did for fun), clutched a well-worn cricket bat.

A whole crowd of people armed with makeshift weapons usually found its courage eventually. Harley decided to chase them all back inside before the mob mentality had a chance to develop. She whistled for Bud and Lou, who were now playing tug-of-war with Batman's utility belt, and ordered them to perform crowd control.

At the sight of the two growling, slobbering hyenas, most of the gawkers got the message. They retreated inside and now peered out through windows or firmly locked doors. The young man who was so obsessed with dethroning Keyboard Cat hung around, trying to get a close-up of the long runners of drool dripping from Bud's muzzle. He ended up being mauled, and escaping without his underpants.

"Awesome footage, freaking sweet! Yeah, how do you like those boxers, buddy? I ain't washed them since last Monday! Ha!"

Bud was apparently not worried that the boxers were so foul they should have been treated as hazardous waste, because he continued to devour the hapless pants. Butt-naked, the wannabe film star continued to shoot from the safety of his living room.

By some miracle, Crane had managed to disengage himself from the fray. He crawled on his hands and knees before nearly collapsing. In the brief moments he had been pinned between the Crusader and the clown, the damned Joker had literally kicked his ass. It felt like his tailbone was now lodged firmly next his fourth vertebra.

He had to get back to the truck no matter where his coccyx was now residing. That purple pickup became the sole focus of his vision. Unless Harley reneged, and even if she did calling her Harleen a few times could probably make her reconsider, he'd be able to escape. Let the Joker and Batman knock each others' brains out until the cops arrived. Let the GPD break out the buckets and the shovels and scoop up the liberated brains and puzzle out whom each wet, slimy mass belonged to.

"Hey, Scarecrow, look up here!"

Someone was trying to get Crane's attention by shouting and rapping on a window, as some people believed knocking on the glass of a zoo enclosure would incite the animals inside to move or at least roll over in their sleep. Like a majority of those zoo animals, Crane ignored the knocking and continued to creep along toward his goal.

"Come on, Scarecrow! Please? I'm making a documentary."

Just ignore him, and he'll go away. Crane told himself to keep his eyes on the truck, block out all outside influences, and let the monkey chatter.

"I'm going to put it on YouTube, and I'm sure you'll attract at least ten viewers. _Somebody's _got to want to see you."

Enough was enough. Crane stopped crawling, turned toward the yappy filmmaker, and flipped him off. Instead of retreating or getting offended, the would-be Spielberg cheered.

"Thanks! I've seen videos of you running from the fuzz and getting your ass kicked by Batman, but I've never seen you giving the one-finger salute."

Son of a bitch! People had taken unauthorized videos of him and plastered the Internet with them? Did he know anyone computer-savvy enough to crash YouTube or send out a massive viral attack on any web surfer stupid enough to visit said degrading films? Maybe Nigma; he had a way with electronics, at least when it came to building over-complicated death machines that always failed at the last second.

As delicious a thought as ruining the viewing pleasure of millions was, cyber revenge would have to wait until he finished dragging himself to the truck. Luckily, it was only a few feet in front of him. Maybe he could get Harley to back up a little. No, that probably wasn't the best idea. She might end up backing over him. He hadn't survived the Joker just to be run over by the maniac's less-than-road-worthy lover.

The Joker slipped out of his coat, leaving Batman holding the empty garment. Some animals, such as salamanders, had a similar defensive measure; when caught by a predator, they shucked off a limb or tail. Much angrier than any hunter left holding a twitching tail stub, Batman threw down the coat and went after the meatier part of the clown.

With some distance between him and the Bat, the Joker was again able to use his gun. The gunfire did more harm to the inhabitants of the neighborhood than it did to Batman. The paranoid karate expert threw down his nunchucks and ran for the windowless safety of his closet. YouTube kid hit the floor, nearly broke his camera, and monkey-crawled away from the window. He was done recording the action for a while.

Since Batman was still coming at him with the singled-mindedness of a Terminator, the Joker decided it was really time for the party to end. He would have liked to begin the morning by beating his arch-nemesis with a golf club, but he'd settle for maintaining possession of all his limbs. In the future, the chance to maim Batman would surely present itself.

Crane had just made it to the truck and was pulling himself over the tailgate when the Joker leapt over him. The clown rolled over and over like an action hero who'd just taken a dive from a car headed for destruction. Finally, he came to a stop, saw Batman barreling at him like a train, and began to furiously bang on the window.

"Harley! For the love of Groucho, drive!"

"Are the Babies on board?" Harley replied.

"Who cares? Go!"

"Not without Bud and Lou! 'Sides, Professor Crane said… Where is he, anyways?"

"Here, help. Hand up, please." Crane said, peering over the tailgate with his hand outstretched.

"Spooky, you're such a weakling." The Joker said, scuttling forward.

The Joker grabbed his hand, and for one terrible moment, Crane was sure he was going to get _The Lion King_ treatment. Luckily, the Joker was too panicked to consider letting the Scarecrow go. The clown yanked, and Crane was able to wriggle aboard.

Crane was a second away from whistling for the hyenas when Batman also jumped onto the truck. Unlike the Joker, Batman did not see the need to roll over and over like a hyperactive dog, but landed solidly on his feet. The Scarecrow idly wondered how strong the Bat had to be to stick such a landing wearing as much armor as he did.

"Hide me." The Joker whimpered, squeezing behind the Scarecrow.

"You yellow coward." Crane hissed.

Batman growled something unintelligible, and the Scarecrow suddenly wanted to faint. Whatever was going to transpire in the next five seconds, he didn't want to be conscious for it.

"I, I, I'm not doing this of my own free will. If you can pry him off, you can keep him." Crane said.

Batman reached one armored hand towards the Joker. The clown brought up an old trick. Once again, Crane found a gun pressed to his head.

"Oh, absolutely not! This is not going to become a habit! Give me that." The Scarecrow ordered. He grabbed the barrel of the gun and forced it away from his temple.

"No, that's mine! Let go, you scrawny pile of tinder."

"A little help, perhaps?" Crane asked, struggling to keep the pistol from touching him. He had a bad feeling the Joker wouldn't play silly games this time.

The vigilante's hand clamped down over the Joker's and pulled the gun from his grip. He tossed the weapon onto someone's front lawn. Hopefully, the police would collect it before anyone snapped it up as a trophy or future eBay merchandise.

"I wasn't really going to kill him. Can't anyone take a joke?"

Batman pried the Joker, kicking and screaming, from his failed hostage. He shook the clown, who promptly whimpered in fear.

"Utility belt?" Batman asked.

"In the street. By the manhole." Crane replied. He pointed a shaking finger at it.

Dragging the reluctant Joker, Batman hopped down onto the pavement. He turned towards the Scarecrow, who was currently little more than a quivering mass of gray jelly. "Don't move."

The Scarecrow waited until Batman had reached his utility belt and had picked it up. Then, ignoring the hero's command, Crane whistled for the hyenas. The two mutts offered Batman a baleful glare before leaping into the bed of the truck. They immediately pounced on Crane and began to slobber all over his mask. Apparently, they liked burlap-flavored snacks.

"Harley, punch it!"

A watery, trembling voice replied, "But what about Mister J?"

"You can break him out of Arkham! For the love of all things frightful, do it!"

"But my Puddin'!"

"Harleen Quintzel, you gave your word!"

"Okay." She sniffled.

The truck shot off nearly fast enough to escape Earth's gravitational pull. Since there were no seat belts handy, Crane grabbed onto Bud and Lou.

"That's good, child. Lead foot, just like I told you." The Scarecrow panted. He was clutching the furry duo with no intentions of letting go.

The pickup sped away just as the first sirens reached Crane's ears. He wondered what, if anything, would be left for the police to arrest. Batman might have reduced the Joker to nothing more than carbon atoms and scraps of purple fabric. Good luck throwing that into a holding cell.

"Poor Mister J. What are we gonna do without him?" Harley asked.

"I know I won't speak for you, but I'm going to fall to my knees and thank the Almighty Not-There for giving that clown exactly what he deserved."

"I think I wanna eat some chocolate and wash it down with some ice cream. Chocolate ice cream." Harley said.

"Beautiful. Know any place we can do that?" Crane asked.

Harley wiped her nose on her shirt. "Yeah, actually."

The Scarecrow's face almost popped off like Mister Potato Head's plastic snap-on features. "You have a place to go? Why in the hell didn't you tell us hours ago?"

"I couldn't bring Mister J. Now that he's gone…Maybe it's okay." More sniffling and nose-honking.

"Where do you- Oh, I think I know."

"You think it'll be okay?" Harley asked.

"I wish this was a hybrid vehicle."

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Author's Notes:

In the movie _Space Jam_, Michael Jordan's arm stretched unnaturally far, allowing him to beat some aliens at basketball.

A Mexican standoff is an unwinnable situation, commonly seen in movies when two or more people are pointing guns at each other and neither will move for fear of being shot. Quentin Tarantino's films—Pulp Fiction, Inglorious Basterds, and Reservoir Dogs—often feature Mexican standoffs.

The cartoon Crane is talking about is _Beavis and Butt-head_. Ah, the wit of the '90's.

In _Psycho_, Norman Bates did taxidermy when he wasn't killing hotel guests in the shower.

In case anyone's never seen _The Lion King_, Scar chucks his brother off a cliff and into a stampede of wildebeests.

Yep, one more chapter and _Nerd_ will be complete. I'll try to get it up quickly. I'm done with _Under the Dome_ (4 days to read 1,074 pages) so that won't distract me (unless I decide to read it again).


	23. The Luck of the Nerdy

Well, this is it. Thanks for seeing my baby through to the end.

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Harley drove fast enough to make the Devil eat her dust, to make a cheetah look like it was standing still, and to reduce the scenery to an Impressionist painting blur of colors. Bud and Lou, like many 'dogs', enjoyed car rides. Their tongues lolled out in pleasure as the wind ruffled their fur, flapped their ears, and splattered their excessive amounts of drool all over the truck.

Crane, not having any fur, was getting quite chilled from the night air being driven by him at roughly the speed of sound. He knocked on the window to get Harley's attention.

"Pull to the side of the road and then put the heater on. I'm turning blue back here."

"Anythin' you say." Harley replied. Her voice was still a little choked up. For some inconceivable reason, she missed the Joker.

Actually bothering to use the turn-signal, Harley did as asked. Once the truck had come to a full and complete stop, the Scarecrow hobbled from the back, giving Bud and Lou a little pat before leaving them. He opened the door to the cab and climbed in.

The heater was growling like something chased up a tree and pissed off about it. Despite the fact it sounded a bit like Batman, the heater instantly shot to the top of Crane's friends list. He placed his hands in front of a vent that was spewing air hot enough to roast wieners and flexed his fingers. Yes, the climate up here was much more comfortable.

"How much gas do you think the heater eats?" Harley asked.

"I don't know and, frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

"But maybe we should conserve it? I mean, Red's gonna be mad enough when she sees me drivin' this tank."

"And she'll be equally furious at me for being a male, and for wearing clothing made of synthetic fiber. As long as she doesn't strangle either of us with vines, I'll endure any amount of shouting she may need to do." Crane replied.

"I always kinda got the impression Red liked you. At least compared to everybody else." Harley said.

Crane choked. "Are you mad? Well, I suppose technically yes, but _Poison Ivy_ liking _me_? That's absurd."

"She's never tried to kill you, right?" Harley asked.

"Not that I can recall. Has she tried to murder you?" The Scarecrow said.

Harley shrugged. "I don't think on purpose. That time with the poinsettia was definitely an accident, and I know Red didn't really want that fir tree to fall on me. She got it off before I suffocated."

"I'm venturing into the _Little Shop of Horrors_, aren't I?"

"Most of the stuff ain't that bad, Professor. I mean, sure, some of the plants might be a little poisonous, and thorny, and Mel might be able to swallow a whole cow, but a lot of them are pretty. But don't try to touch the daisies. They have teeth." Harley warned.

"Since when does Stephen King contribute to _Better Homes and Gardens_?"

"It ain't _that_ bad. So some of the plants get a little nippy. That's okay, right?"

"Dogs, child, get a little nippy. Toddlers get a little nippy. Plants should never have that problem."

"Red said plants didn't have enough defenses, so she was gonna arm them. It makes sense, I think."

Crane snorted. "Not enough defenses? And that woman claims to be a botanist. Has she never heard of the castor bean, nightshade or monkshood? Plants do not need _teeth_ to be dangerous."

Harley was quiet for a minute, puzzling out whether Red was doing the flora of the world a favor, or if she was just a little bit crazy. Professor Crane was right; there were plenty of plants out there that would kill you dead in no time flat. But Red was right too; lots of plants weren't even a little bit poisonous. People could just burn them, or chop them up, or press them to make cutesy decorations with no consequences.

"Just don't tell her plants don't need protectin'. If Red says all plants should get machine guns, it's best to just smile and agree. If you don't, she might kick you out or feed you to Mel. I wonder if Mel got any bigger since I saw him last month." Harley said.

"If Mel does eat me, don't tell anyone. I would prefer not to be remembered as the fearsome villain killed by a flower. Spare me that last indignity, all right?" Crane said.

"Okey-dokey, Professor." Harley agreed.

"Lovely. To prevent that painful situation, are there any tips you can give me to avoid engendering Poison Ivy's wrath? Any taboo words that might set her off? Any chemicals that make her turn brown and dry up like a salted slug?" Crane asked.

The blonde giggled nervously. "Um, yeah, there's a lot of stuff like that, actually. I don't mean the chemical stuff. She's like a poison-type Pokémon."

"Like a poisonous _what_?"

"A Pokémon. Anyway, there's, like, a million words you don't wanna say around Red. Fires, toxic waste, deforestation, Roundup weed killer, clear-cutting, slash-and-burn, bulldozer, stuff like that. The list could probably fill a book. A really, really, long book."

"How many trees would they have to cut down to print said book?" Crane asked sarcastically.

"That'd get you fed to Mel."

"Tell me, mathematically, what are my chances of leaving Ivy's lair alive? If they're below 50 percent, stop the truck and let me out. I'll start hitchhiking to Alaska."

"Don't mention Alaska or West Virginia, either. Red was all in a huff 'cause of the strip-mining there."

"Just answer my question. Am I walking to my own ridiculous death?" Crane demanded.

"Probably not. See, Red tells me all the time she wants "intellectual company." Harley made air quotes. "She says I'm fun to have sleepovers with, but she can't tell me anything science-y or I fall asleep. You're probably brainy enough for her."

The Scarecrow was about to voice his indignation when an interesting thought crept into his head. Various plants could cause hallucinations, as people who ingested certain mushrooms so they could smell color would tell you. In fact, his own fear toxin relied heavily on many naturally-occurring compounds. Poison Ivy, in all her botanical research, might have gained a plethora of knowledge on the psychological effects of plants. It wasn't out of the question that a new, and more potent, version of fear-inducing poison was hiding in Ivy's notes.

"Her research may prove _interesting_."

"When you say 'interesting' do you mean 'take some notes' or 'everybody's gonna be readin' 'bout this in the papers tomorrow' interesting?" Harley asked.

"With luck, the latter."

Harley was by no means a pessimist; she still somehow believed her relationship with the Joker was going to end with eternal bliss and wedding vows. However, she was beginning to doubt Gotham City would survive a melding of the minds between Pamela Isley and Jonathan Crane. Oh well. It was a little too late to suggest going anywhere else, and Harley really did want to see if Mel had grown any more prestigious. She'd just have to make sure she told everyone she cared about to invest in gas masks and weed-whackers in the coming weeks.

"How much longer until we get there?" The Scarecrow asked.

"Um, I can't quite remember what exit you're supposed to take. I think it's 65A, but it might be 65B. Now that I think about it, it could be exit 56."

"So we're going to be going in circles at least until four o'clock."

"Yep, most likely."

"All right. In that case, I'm going to sleep. Wake me when we get there and for no other reason. I don't care if nuclear war breaks out, the dead get up and tango or a vampire leaps on the roof and attempts to claw his way in."

"But what if it's Edward-"

"If the next word out of your mouth is 'Cullen', I'm going to break off all relations with you and you will be dead to me."

"I mean, what if it's, uh… Who are some other vampires?"

"Good night, Harley."

Crane finally got around to removing his mask. He bunched the burlap into a pillow and rested his head on it. The fabric was scratchy and smelled like hyena breath. The Scarecrow was hardly conscious long enough to register these facts.

Harley peeked over at her sleeping passenger and then turned her focus back to the road. Seeing Crane sleeping made her realize how tired she was. Stifling a yawn, Harley tried to recall what exit Red had drilled into her brain. A parade of 6's and 5's marched through her frontal lobe. Darn it, she should have written it down on something and kept it with her!

An indeterminate amount of time later, Crane became aware of the sensation of someone jabbing him in the ribs. In what was purely instinctive behavior brought on by years of being awoken by everything from police to gun-toting junkies looking for an easy rube to steal from, the Scarecrow grabbed the unknown poker and shoved his right hand directly into the person's face, a gesture that would normally have doused the unfortunate soul with poison. Luckily for Harley, Crane had no fear toxin on him and all she got was a close-up of his open palm.

"Child?" Crane blinked several times and Harley's startled face became clearer.

"We're, uh, here. Would you mind lettin' go?" Harley asked.

The Scarecrow looked down at his hand and realized he had inadvertently grabbed Harley's chest. His hand was wrapped firmly in her tee shirt, and it looked to the world like he was some pervert copping a feel. As though he had been caught feeling up his much-despised grandmother, Crane practically threw himself backwards. He hit the door, the handle dug into his spine, and all the blood in his body rushed to his face.

"I'm going to go kill myself now."

"Professor, maybe this can just be one of those things we never, ever talk about to anybody, even when we're on our deathbeds." Harley suggested.

That plan was definitely better than suicide.

"It'll be like those gay cowboys." Harley said, suddenly inspired.

Scratch that, he was going to hang himself from a tree.

"Okay, bad example. It'll be like that time Mister J got drunk on eggnog 'cause we put a gallon of booze in it and started-"

"I wish someone would invent the suicide booth, all ready." The Scarecrow moaned.

"Let's just go visit my gal-pal. I'm sure she can make you feel better; if not, she can hit you with a shovel until you don't remember anymore!" Harley said cheerfully.

Forcing his wayward hand to close firmly on the door handle, Crane pushed the door open. He stepped out of the truck and looked into the sky. It was gray, and the last stars were fading in the western sky. Harley must have gotten severely lost; more than four hours must have passed since he fell asleep.

"Do we just go up and ring the door bell?" Crane asked.

"No. Red told me where she hides the spare key. Come on, let's find it." Harley said.

By the dawn's early light, and by squinting until his eyes became slits, the Scarecrow was able to make out a complex of buildings several hundred yards away. Harley apparently hoped Poison Ivy wouldn't see the offending truck she had parked out in the boondocks.

"What do you plan to do with Bud and Lou?"

Harley froze in mid-step. "Oh, crap. Normally, I leave them with Mister J, but Arkham ain't exactly pet friendly. I'm sure Red won't mind. Come on, Babies, let's go get some breakfast. I hope it isn't organic tofu omelets again."

The Scarecrow watched with mild disbelief as Harley, closely followed by her children of another species, trotted off across the field. Before he pursued the mismatched trio, he retrieved his mask. If Harley was going to have her great, slobbery beasts for comfort, he was going to have Spooky Junior.

As the collection of buildings got closer, Crane began to notice a change in the scenery. The more he walked, the greener the grass became. As a rule, living things, be they human, animal, or plant, didn't thrive in Gotham City. In some vacant lots, even weeds had trouble hanging on. Here, however, the ground was lushly carpeted.

Harley paused and looked back halfway to her destination to see if Professor Crane was keeping up. He was fifty feet behind her, down on his hands and knees, examining the lawn. Sighing in exasperation, Harley went to retrieve him.

"I've never seen anything this purely _green_. It's like I'm seeing grass for the first time. Harley, this is quite incredible."

"Yeah, the yard's nice. You should see the flowerbeds." Harley said. Then she looked at her Babies and said sternly, "No peein' on them!"

"It's like I've seen the most perfect grass, the very essence of grass, the true Form of grass. I have escaped the cave and gazed upon real grass, not merely the shadow of grass!"

"Uh, sure, why not."

"It even smells nice, like summer in the country. Harley, have you _smelled_ this grass?"

"Come on, Professor. You can tell Red all about how wonderful her yard is. It'll put you on her good side." Harley grabbed the Scarecrow's arm and forced him to abandon his poetic praising.

As Harley had promised, the flowerbeds did not disappoint. "Incredible. Why is Ivy spinning in the revolving door of Arkham when she could be doing landscaping for Bruce Wayne?"

"'Cause she's got a temper," Harley said.

"Even so, this is _art_. I've never seen such vibrant colors, such exquisite shades anywhere in nature. Remarkable. I can't even begin to identify many of these species; are they native to this region, do you know?"

"I know like four flowers, Professor. Dandelions, roses, daises, and tulips. If it ain't one of them, don't ask me." Harley replied.

Crane knelt down in front of the expansive flowerbeds and reached out for one of the flawless blooms. Before Harley could shriek or tackle him, he snapped the flower from its stalk. As though the little pink puffball had cried out in mortal agony, alerting its caregiver of its demise, the door hardly ten feet to Crane's right slammed open.

"What do you think you're doing?" Poison Ivy, clad in nothing but a long periwinkle nightgown and slippers, howled.

The Scarecrow hid the flower behind his back, as though concealing the evidence erased the crime. "Looking for a place to stay?" Crane ventured.

"You _murdered_ that flower!"

"It's just a-"

Harley leapt on the Scarecrow, pinning him to the ground, and clapped her hand over his mouth. "What he meant to say, Red, was that he was really, really, totally sorry and he'll never do it again."

Foreseeing a death in which he was wrapped by vines until his eyes popped out, Crane nodded emphatically. Harley, sensing Crane wanted to beg for his life, removed her hand so he could do it properly.

"It was a terrible, reprehensible thing on my part. I was intrigued by the beauty and my hand acted before my mind could restrain it."

Ivy glared at him. "Do you know what you sound like? A politician apologizing for a sex scandal."

The Scarecrow muttered something under his breath and Harley punched him in the ribs.

"Not to her, it ain't just a fancy weed." The harlequin said, louder than intended.

"Harley, what possessed you to bring him here? Did you see a sign out in front of my house that said 'Free Scarecrow Storage'?" Ivy asked. "No? And do you know why? Because there isn't one! When I offer to take you in, that offer isn't extended to every freak you know. Or your pets!"

Bud had just lifted his leg to water Ivy's flower garden. Harley propelled herself off Crane and wrapped her arms around the hyena. She dragged Bud off and held him to prevent him from emptying his bladder on any rare specimens.

"He's housetrained, honest." Harley said.

A vein began to throb in Poison Ivy's temple. Crane was sympathetic. That same vein had pulsed violently in his own head whenever the Joker did something stupid or destructive.

"Then take him inside and let him water yesterday's sports section." Isley said.

"What about Professor Crane? You're not gonna kill him while I'm gone, right?" Harley asked.

"For now, I just want to talk to him. He better have a good story or his obituary's going to be interesting."

Harley pulled Bud and Lou inside, closing the door with a kick. The Scarecrow watched them go with a sinking feeling in his stomach; he'd probably dug his own grave just by picking one sprout of pink fluff. By the time the mutts were done with their business, Ivy would be planting him in some secret spot beside the greenhouse.

"Talk."

"Harley and I just escaped the Bat, and we needed a place to go. The Joker's either gone back to Arkham, or Batman finally snapped and killed him. I'm hoping for the latter."

"Why were you with Harley and that chauvinistic scum-dog she's too good for? I can't believe you'd seek them out." Ivy said.

"I'd stick a pencil in my eye before I'd join that lunatic! He barged into my home and refused to leave! He called me a nerd, blocked my toilet, ate my food, and since yesterday he's been physically torturing me! Do you want to guess how many times I was electrocuted in the past 24 hours? How about the number of times I was given a dose of my own fear toxin? Care to wager how often spiders bit me? I've got a rash and several head wounds! Would you like to see them?"

Pamela Isley stared, "The…Joker…did _all_ that to you and you're still alive?"

"If this wretched state counts as living." Crane said. "I hate that clown with every fiber of my being."

Ivy's hard-line attitude disappeared. "You too, Crane? We should kill him."

"Yes? Yes, yes we should! And we should torture him first!"

"We should stab him with a trowel!"

"Force-feed him okra."

"Plant bamboo under him and let it skewer his body."

"I think I love you."

"Cool it."

Crane pulled himself off the ground. Ivy snickered and pointed at his hand.

"What is _that_ thing?" She asked.

The Scarecrow held up his trusted burlap buddy. "Would you like to see my mask?"

"That depends. Would you like to see my genetically modified giant _Dionaea muscipula_, also known as Mel?" Ivy purred.

"I'd rather see your sofa or guest bedroom."

Taking it not as a harmless attempt to get some shuteye before he collapsed, but instead as a pathetic come-on line, Ivy growled at him. If there was one thing she hated—and there was certainly more than one—it was men who hid their intentions behind poorly rehearsed propositions.

The Scarecrow realized his mistake before Red could retrieve her crossbow and fire a few arrows into his vital organs. "I didn't mean it like that! If you've never had the Joker camp at your house, you don't realize how dangerous it is to sleep around him. I tried to take a nap and he broke down my door and drew moustaches on me with permanent marker!"

Mention of the Joker seemed to defuse the redhead. Crane breathed a sigh of relief. This woman might actually kill him for a little slipup. He'd have to monitor every word and install special Thought Police to detain anything that could be deemed sexist.

"You can sleep on the sofa. If you were dead on your feet, you should have told me sooner. I wouldn't have jumped down your throat."

Great, now she was showing a slightly maternal side. If he wasn't in fear of being tossed into the maw of a botanical Frankenstein, he might have offered her therapy sessions. There seemed to be some serious anger issues, along with hormonal imbalances and deep-seated prejudices.

Before the Scarecrow could reach the door, it flew open and disgorged Harley. She managed to fend off the inquiring heads of Bud and Lou and shut the door behind her.

"There was some purple stuff in your fridge I think was Jell-O, so I fed it to the Babies. Hope you don't mind, Red." Harley said.

"It was not gelatin! Never mind. I don't think it was poisonous." Ivy said.

Crane tried to slip discreetly past Harley and into the house. That, of course, didn't work. She grabbed his arm and yanked it almost hard enough to pull it from its socket.

"Before you go inside, you gotta see Mel! Come on, Professor, I'll show you where he is."

Allowing himself to be dragged, the Scarecrow had to count his blessings. He had escaped the Joker, he would be allowed to sleep as soon as he saw whatever horror-show Harley needed him to see, he'd have Ivy's food to eat, vegan crap or not, and plants couldn't possibly be worse than clowns. The situation wasn't ideal, but it was better than the asylum or the burning basement.

Those beliefs were somewhat shaken a few minutes later, when one of Mel's vines wrapped around his ankle and began to reel him into the gaping, toothed mouth. Luckily, Harley was able to beat the plant with a shovel, forcing it to release the terrified Scarecrow. Shaking in the greenhouse dirt, Crane wondered why the Universe hated him so, why, no matter where he went, he had no peace, and why everything wanted to kill him.

The Joker's voice, a phantom in Crane's head, was only too happy to supply the answer.

"Because you're a nerd!"

THE END!

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Author's Notes: Thanks, thanks, thanks for reading!

_Little Shop of Horrors_ is a film about a giant talking plant that eats people.

Castor beans, nightshade and monkshood (also known as wolfsbane) are all incredibly poisonous.

In the Pokémon games, a poison-type Pokémon couldn't get poisoned. Poison Ivy is similarly immune. I feel like the Queen of the Nerds for remembering that stuff…

Edward Cullen is the vampire from _Twilight_. I think Crane would _not_ be a fan.

The "gay cowboys" refers to _Brokeback Mountain_.

Plato had the idea that everything had a perfect Form, but on Earth all we had were imitations. Crane's saying that he saw the greatest grass that could ever exist anywhere.

_Dionaea muscipula _is the scientific name for the Venus flytrap.

I've got several one-shots and smaller stories in my head, so you'll hear from me soon. Thanks for being so supportive and for all the reviews, hits, and favorites. You guys gave me a lot of encouragement, and I'll try to give you some good reads in the near future. There may even be a far shorter sequel, but that's just vague right now.

Night Monkey, over and out.


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